


Finding Valhalla

by oh_you_pretty_things



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, DELIBERATELY NOT HISTORICALLY ACCURATE, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Encino Man AU, F/M, Foreign Language, If you want historical accuracy go somewhere else, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Language Barrier, Reincarnation, Things will probably get ridiculous before they get better, Time Travel, im here to have fun, likely historically inaccurate, remember the source material please
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2019-12-26 00:27:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18272117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_you_pretty_things/pseuds/oh_you_pretty_things
Summary: Working at the Berk Viking Village historical site had been Astrid’s dream job since she was a little girl. There was something about the Viking Era that called to her, that drew her in. Newly promoted to site manager and working on her Master's in Viking Studies, Astrid's dreams were coming true... Until the night a stranger came crashing through the roof of Building 14 and mumbled something completely unintelligible before losing consciousness. Well, completely unintelligible except for one thing – he’d very distinctly said her name.





	1. Chapter 1

I’d like to say that this is the first time I’ve seen Berk on fire, but it isn’t. It’s not even the second or third. In fact, I’m struggling to remember a time when Berk hasn’t been on fire in recent memory. In distant memory, too. We’ve been at war for as long as I can remember. First with the dragons, and then with those who wanted to take them. Every solution presented a new problem until we were overrun with them and war was the only solution we had. _Have._

My name is Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, and likely the last. I have pretty much nothing left. Disturbingly, the acrid stench of burning homes and bodies is all too familiar to me now. All I have now is my dragon, Toothless, and the will to protect what’s mine, though that’s rough when all that’s mine is a decimated village devoid of life. It would be easy to give up now. It would be easy to let the smoke envelop me and the flames devour me, and if not for Toothless’ persistent whine beside me, maybe I would. Everyone I love is dead. Everyone I was supposed to protect is gone. Everything I held dear has been taken from me almost systematically, starting with Astrid.

Not that she was ever mine, mind you. We were kids, just barely figuring out how to train dragons and be friends, but there had been the promise of something back then. Before the war came and took that promise from us. And then one by one, my friends and family started to disappear. I was chief at eighteen, leading a dwindling populace into battle after battle with never enough time between them to come up with a solid plan. A chief protects his own, but if the fire and blood around me are any indicator, I’ve been doing a terrible job of that.

Toothless jams his head into my back and sends me stumbling. The dragon knows his cue, I’ll give him that. The hand I place on his nose is riddled with scars, coated in soot and caked in blood. I barely recognize it as my own.

“You should go, bud,” I tell him.

I already set his tail up for him. He could escape with the rest of the dragons, but he won’t. He refuses to leave me here. As the crackling of burning homes surrounds us, his eyes dart back and forth in fear. I want him to go. I’m not afraid to die. In fact, I welcome it. Only in death will I see my friends again. My father. Astrid. They’re all waiting in Valhalla and when I look to the skies, the muted rays of light cutting through the smoke like a pathway to the heavens, I almost believe I’m meant to go now.

Toothless slams his nose into my side, desperate and powerful enough to nearly knock me over.

“What?” I snap, glaring at him.

He nods with his nose toward the hills, toward the smoking ruins of the Great Hall and I bite back a curse. At first I wonder what I’m seeing, but Toothless’ persistent pacing and urgent yips remind me that his eyes see much farther than my own. Through the smoke, I can just make out movement. People. _My_ people, still alive.

“Oh Thor,” I whisper, turning my attention to the skies.

The sentry dragons are circling and while the thick cover of smoke might hide the small group of Berkians that I can barely make out, it won’t do it for long.

“We have to help them,” I tell Toothless.

He rolls his bright green eyes at me as though to tell me I’m slow and that’s fair. I almost gave up there for a minute, dreaming about Valhalla. Toothless stills long enough for me to hop onto his back, taking off rapidly and near vertically. If we can distract the sentries long enough, my people might have a chance. If we can draw their fire, they can make it to the forest to hide. I don’t have a plan, but that’s never stopped me before, why would it start now?

Toothless and I climb higher and higher, with me leaning into his neck, the frigid air biting into my skin as we cut through low clouds. I pull up on his rigging and he evens out long enough for me to scan the area.

“There,” I shout, pulling hard to the right.

Toothless releases a plasma blast instantaneously, just in time to draw the attention of the sentry dragons who haven’t seen our ascent. There’s eight of them and I have a hard time believing that we’ll make it out of this alive, but I have to try. I always have to try. Toothless and I cut through the air, my left leg burning from the exertion of switching direction so rapidly and so often. It’s worth it if I can save the handful of people left. It’s worth it if Berk lives on. The sentries follow us and I’m sure from the ground we look like a wild pack of birds, changing course with a shift in the wind. Despite our efforts, the enemy dragons get close enough to fire and I defer to Toothless’ senses to guide our flight. Looking over my shoulder, I duck just in time to avoid a fireball to the head. In the past, I might have made a smart comment about it, but there’s no one to hear those quips now. And there’ll be no one left at all if I don’t stay focused.

Toothless and I do our best, weaving in and out of clouds, dropping and gaining altitude whenever we can to keep the sentries on our tail. We pull them farther and farther away from the village. Farther from all I have left, and though they gain on us, though we are both tiring from the pursuit, I feel more alive than I have in ages.

That is, until I hear the cry. It’s distant, but piercingly familiar. The call of the sentry dragon to its brethren. The fireballs stop coming and I look back again to see that one by one the dragons have given us up and are headed back to Berk.

“Damnit,” I mutter, “Come on, Toothless. We can’t let them reach the village.”

Toothless twists in the air at breakneck speed and my tired muscles scream in protest. But there’s no time for that, there’s only time to lean into his back and gain speed. He takes out three of them with plasma blasts, easier now that we’re the ones doing the chasing, which draws the attention of another three, slowing their descent. But it doesn’t matter because one of them keeps going straight for Berk. Straight for the edge of the forest. From here, I can see the last of the villagers running across the plains. They’re almost under cover, almost safe, and I know what I have to do. Like I said, I’m not afraid to die.

“Toothless, go,” I scream into the wind.

Our descent is rapid and dizzying, and I struggle to stay conscious. But I must. I must because these people are counting on me. There’s no one else. We’re almost there, gaining rapidly on that last dragon with me leaning so far into Toothless’ nubs that they press painfully against my chest. If I live, I’ll be bruised and that will be the least of my problems. The dragon feels us closing in and must hear Toothless’ plasma blast building in the back of his throat. It looks back at us, panicked, and changes course at the last minute. Toothless stays on it and I look down to see the last of the Berkians disappear into the darkness of the woods. The cover will be enough for them to scatter and hide. Our enemies will use Berk and its resources, so the dragons aren’t going to raze the forest. Though the battle is far from over for me, the important part is done. My people are safe and if it’s the last thing I do, then may the Valkyries welcome me with open arms and take me to Valhalla.

I almost laugh as Toothless’ plasma blast bursts against the dragon’s wing, sending it tail spinning toward the sea. We change course suddenly, heading back to the village. If we’re lucky, we can land somewhere near Raven Point and from there we’ll rendezvous with the villagers in the woods. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll make it out of this alive.

The blasts seem to come out of nowhere, though they were precisely aimed for where my leg connects to Toothless’ rigging, and I realize that I’ve made the fatal mistake of forgetting about the other sentries. They certainly haven’t forgotten about me.

Falling isn’t new to me, but I know this time is different. I can feel it in the billowing heat of the fire beneath me, hear it in the whistle of the wind in my ears. Toothless doesn’t need me. I had made last minute adjustments to his tail to keep him from needing me, just in case of a situation like this one. Whoever the mastermind is behind these continued attacks, they’ve done their homework. They’ve studied us – Toothless and I – they know our weaknesses. And they’ve torn us apart. Pressing against the force of the wind as I careen toward the burning carcass of the village, I slam my hand into my chest hoping to release the wings of my flight suit. One wing springs out, but a look over my shoulder shows me that the other is gone, burnt away by the fireball that knocked me from Toothless’ back. My body spins, turning head over heels, over and over again, gaining speed with each turn. I can’t make out Toothless and can only hope that he managed to stay awake enough to fly. I don’t hold out hope that he’ll come for me. There’s only so many times a man can cheat death and I think I’m out of tricks.

This is it. This is the one last fall I won’t recover from, I won’t be saved. I accept Valhalla. I accept my own death after watching so many others before me. I accept it because my people are safe. I accept it because maybe, finally, I’ll have some peace.

I close my eyes and exhale. The last person I think of is Astrid. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her face. So long since the promise of what could have been was stolen from us by this war and all the death it’s wrought. If I have one regret, it’s that we didn’t even get a chance to try.

I feel something pulling on me, not hard and fast like a dragon, but gently like a Valkyrie slowing my fall.  My eyes open in time to see Toothless fade into the night sky, his tormented wail dissipating like smoke. Instead of fire, I see the constellations dotting the black sky. Instead of smoke, I smell the sea. Maybe this is it - maybe this is how you get to Valhalla.

My back makes contact, hard and painfully, with something solid. Whatever it is, it doesn’t hold me and the sound of wood splintering replaces the whistle of the wind.

Okay, maybe not Valhalla after all.

I’m falling again, though this time quickly and from a lower height. I crash against something almost soft, before that too gives way. The air has been punched out of my lungs and I cough, rolling to my side before giving up and flopping back over, my arms and legs splayed out. Above me, I can see the stars twinkling calmly overhead, a shooting star zipping and blinking horizontally across the sky through the hole I must have made in the roof of the building. But that doesn’t make sense. There are no buildings left on Berk, and those that still stand are on fire.

My ears ring in time with my throbbing head, but I can just make out voices. I must have hit it hard because I can’t make out their words. It almost sounds like they’re not even speaking Norse.

“Help,” I try to call out, my voice cracking weakly. I can taste blood and all I can feel is pain.

The door in front of me is wrenched open and the light it reveals is as white as any star in the sky. I’ve never seen light like it. It doesn’t waver like a candle. It doesn’t hold the orange glow of fire. It’s the purest of whites and I wince against it, my head swimming and pounding. Someone says something I can’t understand, though the tone is unmistakable – they’re as confused as I am. The light is no longer blaring in my face and colours dance before my eyes. I try to blink them away, but they persist and my stomach churns as the pain continues to set in. I don’t think I’m dead. I don’t think Valhalla should hurt this much. Maybe this is Hel. It’s probably Hel. It would be just my luck that it’s Hel.

The voices start again, one is soft and feminine, the other loud and male. Neither make sense. Nothing makes sense until I feel the cool press of someone’s hand on my face. The white light seems to be dancing, rolling back and forth against the wall beside me. But the light can’t hold my interest more than the person kneeling beside me. Her face feels out of place and I don’t know if I’m imagining her, or if she’s really here.

“Astrid,” I whisper.

She looks shocked, her eyes widening like she’s surprised to see me here, too. I try to smile, but even that hurts.

“I made it,” I murmur as darkness engulfs me, “I made it to Valhalla.”


	2. Chapter 2

Working at the Berk Viking Village historical site had been Astrid’s dream job since she was a little girl and her Uncle Finn would take her to visit on weekends. When she started as a cashier at the (not so historically accurate) snack bar when she was fourteen, she’d never been happier. There wasn’t a thing about that job that she didn’t love at the time, from her (again, inaccurate) uniform to the (ridiculous) script she had to follow while serving (so _incredibly inaccurate_ ) Viking snacks to tourists. But beyond all that, she’d loved just being there, in the recreated village, and watching the other staff work. Even then, Astrid wasn’t stupid enough to believe in any of it – she knew they were actors following scripts – but she loved to watch them work at recreating an era that she felt inexplicably drawn to, had always felt drawn to. Was still drawn to, today, if the whole of her academic career was worth taking into account (it _definitely_ was).

She’d been promoted to a tour guide the following year, making her the youngest _ever_ in the Village’s storied history. There wasn’t a fact about the Berk Viking Village that she didn’t know by heart. And as time went on, she kept rising in the ranks – from snackbar cashier to tour guide to paid actor to shift manager. And, for the last half a year, site manager. Her mother worried that she wouldn’t be able to handle the stress of completing her Master’s _and_ being the site manager, but Astrid managed just fine. There was truly nowhere she’d rather be, and besides, being site manager brought her closer to Dr. Andersson, her all-time idol. The very _voice_ of Viking studies.

And she’d been given an exhibit. Her very own exhibit. Dr. Andersson was trusting _her_ , Astrid Hofferson, with an _exhibit_ on _dragons._ Or rather on the very pointed fixation that the people of Berk had on dragons for a period of roughly seven generations. After this, records pointed to the village having been destroyed in a battle, leaving the few and scattered former Berkians leaving the island and starting a new tribe on an island that the best translations seem to point to being called The Isle of Tomorrow, now known simply (and more dully) as Bend Island. But never mind all that. The key was that she’d been given a real chance by Dr. Andersson to prove her worth at BVV and she wasn’t going to blow it. She also wasn’t entirely sure how she was going to pull it off, either, with her Master’s thesis due date looming and the entire site to manage, but she didn’t tell her mother any of that. It would only worry her.

“Hey, babe.”

Astrid rolled her eyes at the sound of Snotlout’s voice.

“What are you still doing here?” she asked without looking up from her notes.

There were the most _fascinating_ books found in a dig back in the 1820s, some pages very clearly preserved through time. They contained detailed drawings of Berk’s so-called dragons and extensive information about each breed, usually ending with the chilling warning of: “Extremely dangerous. Kill on sight.” The kind of thing she didn’t want to look away from for Snotlout, that’s for sure.

“I was waiting for you. Duh. Unless you want to walk home.”

Astrid looked over top of the glasses on her nose. She didn’t wear glasses normally, but these ones magnified and made it easier for her to make out the runes in some of the pages she managed to get copies of.  “I can take an Uber.”

“And miss out on all this?” Snot asked, raising a debonair eyebrow and splaying out his fingers while running a hand down the front of his chest like he was Vanna White on the Price is Right.

Astrid frowned as she took in what he was wearing and pulled the glasses from her face. “How many times have I told you that no Viking ever wore a v-neck like that? Have you no respect for accuracy?”

Snotlout rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I remember that dress you had in ninth grade with the puffed sleeves, Astrid. Where were you going? To a ball with Mr. Darcy?”

Astrid blinked at Snotlout. She wasn’t really sure where to begin. Did she defend her tender fourteen-year old sensibilities and the fact that the BVV had been run by an idiot at the time? Dr. Andersson made her burn all those costumes when she took over. Or did she tackle the fact that puffed sleeves wouldn’t have been in fashion in 1813? _Or_ —

“You read _Pride and Prejudice_?”

“What? No. I watched that movie with Keira Knightley. She’s hot.”

The biting comment Astrid would have replied with was forgotten when the sound of something heavy crashing through wood somewhere in the Village came through the open window. Her heart jumped in her chest, adrenaline flooding her system, and she froze, her eyes fixed on the small window above Dr. Andersson’s bookshelves. She and Snotlout looked at each other, eyes wide and both barely breathing. Then Astrid did what she always did – she sprang to action, grabbing the industrial-strength flashlight she kept on top of the filing cabinet after those teenaged hoodlums hopped the fence last summer. She was part rage and part fear, though she’d never admit the latter.

“Is anyone left here, or is it just us?” she asked Snotlout, confident that he was hot on her heels.

“Nah. I walked that Chrissy girl to the gate. I’ll have you know you were my second choice to take home.”

Astrid spared him a sidelong glance. She would have to remind him not to hit on his coworkers unless he _enjoyed_ lectures on workplace harassment. But that would have to come later. Right now they had a…situation. Once they were out past the Town Square, Astrid flipped on the flashlight, her heart in her throat.

“All right,” she shouted, her voice ringing in the empty Viking Village like an angry bell, “Come out with your hands where I can see them and I won’t call the cops.”

“You already sound like the cops,” Snot muttered.

Astrid listened hard, narrowing her eyes at the darkness before her. She couldn’t stop thinking about the words _extremely dangerous_ , _kill on sight_. She sucked in a hard breath and shook her head to clear it. Dragons weren’t real. Maybe the Berk Vikings had made them up to scare children. Who knows? It was impossible to tell intent from thousand year old documents. But Astrid knew dragons weren’t real now, so getting caught up in her exhibit content was hardly helpful. Hoffersons weren’t afraid of the dark or the imaginary things that dwell in it.

Action always made Astrid feel better, so she sprang into again, walking with purpose toward the buildings, flashing the glaring LED light at each one looking for damage. It was a fluke that her eye caught the damage to the roof of Building 14 – the Gunderson home, depicting the typical living quarters of a lower class citizen of Berk before the village was destroyed. The light had bounced off the roof and then been swallowed up by the ragged patch of blackness where there was no longer any roof.

“What the—“ she whispered, focusing the light on the huge hole in the roof.

She looked upward as though she expected to find some completely feasible reason for there to be a _massive_ hole in the roof of a building, but the sky was clear enough for her to see not only the stars but also at least one satellite zipping across the vastness of space.

“Whoa. That’s a hole,” Snotlout said unhelpfully.

Well, at least she knew where the sound had come from. Astrid broke into a jog toward Building 14, the light of her flashlight bouncing off walls and trees as she moved. She paused in front of the door, her heart pounding when she thought she heard movement inside and something that sounded like a groan. She tightened her grip on the flashlight and promised herself that if anything jumped out at her, she’d hit it first and ask questions later. She wrenched open the door, flashlight pointed straight ahead, knowing it would blind anyone in its direct beam.

Despite knowing these buildings better than the back of her hand, the eerie brightness of the LED beam lighting up the room made Astrid feel like she was in a horror movie. It took her a minute to register what she was seeing. There was a gaping hole in the roof, which she’d already established, and the bed had been smashed as though something heavy had fallen on it from a great height, and there was…a man sprawled out on the floor, blinking against the light of the flashlight beam.

“What the hell?” she breathed.

“What?” Snotlout echoed from behind her.

There were almost too many things to process about the man on the ground, so Astrid decided to be systematic, starting with the fact that there was a trail of blood coming out of the corner of his mouth. She rushed forward, setting down the flashlight so that she could get a better look at his face and just how damaged he was. The scent of wood fire rose up from him, and if she wasn’t mistaken some of his clothes seemed to be _smoking_.

“Is he dead?” Snotlout asked, having stepped into the building.

“Shut up,” she replied instinctually, her hands turning the man’s face to look at her.

He was young, no older than them, and even in the dark she could see his eyes were an extraordinary shade of green. She’d never seen eyes so green. He blinked at her, The Man Who Fell Through The Roof, and gave her a painful looking smile. He mumbled something completely unintelligible before his eyes fluttered shut. Well, completely unintelligible except for one thing – despite a strange accent she couldn’t place, he’d very distinctly said her name.

Astrid sat back on her heels in shock, her eyes on the man’s face. She didn’t know him. She’d never seen him before in her life. How did he know her name? What was he saying? Oh god, was he concussed? She looked up through the hole in roof and back down to the man on the floor. Obviously he’d fallen through the roof, but how? She and whole crews of four to five people had been on those roofs, even jumping around like idiots, and never fallen through. The only way he’d fall through is if he’d fallen a long way. If he’d fallen a long way, then he was probably pretty hurt.

“Oh god. Snot?”

She looked over her shoulder, instantly relieved that Snotlout had it together enough to think to call 911. Though she did like to harp about accuracy while he was in costume and had given him _several_ warnings about using his cellphone in the Village during operating hours, she was glad he had it on him now since hers was still in her locker back at the main pavilion.

With shaking fingers, Astrid reached out to the man’s throat to check for a pulse. She found it quickly and was relieved that it was strong and remarkably steady for someone who had just fallen through the roof of a Viking Village building. It was almost as if he fell through roofs on a regular basis. Her first aid training came back to her in a sudden wave and she started to scan his body with feather-light fingers, looking for anything else she could help with. The outfit he was wearing was made of heavy, toughened leather and while she was no expert on armour (haha – yes she was, her thesis was on Viking armour and weaponry after all), she suspected that the stiffness of the…suit had probably saved him from serious damage in the fall. But that was making a lot of assumptions she was highly unqualified to make – she still had no idea where he even fell _from_.

“Is he dead?” Snotlout repeated.

“No. When will they get here?” Astrid asked as her fingers slid along a metal rod coming from the back of the suit, a piece of tattered leather attached to it. If she didn’t know better, she’d almost think it was a wing, but that was ridiculous. There were neither dragons nor flying men in Berk.

“They? Should I have called the twins, too?”

Astrid twisted and stared at Snotlout. “What?”

“I called Fish. Figured we could use a doctor.”

In truth, Astrid didn’t know why she continued to let Snotlout surprise her. She’d known him her whole life, they were best friends, they _lived together_ , and still his stupidity knew no bounds. And apparently neither did hers. She stood up, still staring at Snotlout, her mouth open in utter (completely unnecessary) shock.

“What—Why—” she gestured helplessly at the unconscious man behind her, “Why would you call _Fish_ and not nine-one-one?”

Snotlout mulled over this for a hot minute and nodded. “Oh, that would have been smart,” he shrugged, “But Fish is a _doctor_ , Astrid.”

“He’s _almost_ a doctor. Oh my god. You better hope this guy doesn’t die.”

Snot peered around her. “Kind of looks dead already.”

“Well, he’s not.”

Snotlout frowned as he looked at the man on the floor. “Did I hear him say your name?”

Astrid’s stomach twisted and she swallowed hard. She’d been hoping that Snotlout had missed that part. The part where a complete stranger who fell through a roof had said her name and then babbled incoherently in some other language. She knew he’d never let it go. Even now she felt his eyes on her.

“Astrid.”

“What?”

“Is this another one of those weird Viking cosplay guys from Tinder?”

“Snot, that was _one_ time.”

Again, whatever she was about to say fell away in the wake of Snotlout’s words. Viking cosplay. Astrid turned back to the man, her eyes running along his outfit in the dark, taking in the thick stitch work and braiding of the leather. She dropped back down to her knees and reached for the flashlight behind her, her fingers knocking off the handle and sending it rolling again. She groped for it and tugged it toward her once she made solid contact and immediately set to running the light over the leather to get a better look at it. As the man’s chest rose and fell with his breaths, the light caught on some sort of shining coating that was overlaid on the leather.

Not a coating, she realized as she ran her finger over them, but individual discs, hard and cool to the touch.

“What on earth?” she breathed.

They must be plastic? Or...glass? Whatever they were, they certainly weren’t _authentic_. Come to think of it, nothing about this guy’s garb was typically Viking. Not that it should be. Astrid sighed, annoyed that she had let both her research and her best friend set her off course. Of course his... _costume_ wasn’t authentic. He was just some weird guy who fell through the roof of the Gunderson house on a Tuesday night. A trespasser, not a long lost Viking come home to Berk. When she opened her eyes again, they fell upon a stylized dragon symbol on a strap across his chest that looked strangely familiar. The leather might have been red at some point but it had been worn and damaged in a way that made it seem almost black in colour. Damaged in a way that suggested heavy, continued wear and constant friction. It wasn’t like cosplayers to let their costumes get so worn.

Maybe he wasn’t a cosplayer. Maybe he was just a weirdo.

That’s when she spotted the knife tucked in his bracer. She pulled it loose and turned the light on it. Her fingers curled around the cylindrical handle, rolling it against her palm. As much as she wanted to pretend it wasn’t, she knew what it was – a _knifr_. A Viking knife. It had to be a replica. Probably. But it too was worn from use. Who needed to constantly use a _knifr_ in this day and age?

“Well, I’m here. Where’s the patient?”

Astrid stood up, knife still in her hand, and turned toward the door. Fishlegs’ eyes widened and he raised an eyebrow.

“Astrid, we don’t help people by stabbing them.”

“It’s not mine.”

“Said every murderer ever,” Fish continued, unfazed. Then he looked past Astrid, his eyes widening again, “Oh my. Where’s his foot?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: Historical accuracy in this story is, and will continue to be, dubious at best. Please don't take this too seriously - I'm having fun writing this and I hope you're having fun reading it. Thanks! :)

“ _What_?”

The knife fell out of Astrid’s hand, clattering against the wood floor at her feet as she turned. How the hell had she missed _that_? Had this poor man been bleeding out on the floor from a missing _foot_ while she was too busy ogling his _costume_? Fishlegs pushed past her and set his medical bag down on the ground before settling himself down on one knee, his attention decidedly not on the man’s missing foot.

“Again, we don’t help people by throwing knives, Astrid,” he said calmly as he reached out and gently turned the man’s face toward him, “Has he been unconscious the whole time?”

“No,” Astrid said, “What about his foot?”

“What about it? It’s missing.”

“Fishlegs!”

“I’m gonna puke,” Snotlout said from the doorway.

Astrid spun around and pointed her index finger at him. “Don’t you dare. I’m not cleaning that up. Why don’t you go get a tarp to cover up the hole in the roof and _do not_ even think of puking.”

Snotlout took off in a run, as Astrid predicted he would, and she took a few deep breaths with her eyes locked on the open doorway, letting the cool autumn air run over her before having to face the missing foot. She turned slowly, her heart pounding so violently in her throat that she thought it would choke her. She was expecting a growing puddle of blood, but instead she saw none. Frowning, she lifted the flashlight and aimed it to the man’s feet. Foot. Fishlegs was right – the man’s left foot was…absent. Astrid’s head tilted as she narrowed her eyes at what was there instead of a foot. It looked like a metal…peg leg? Well, a metal peg leg that had been blown to smithereens, more accurately.

“What the _hell_?” she muttered.

“You’re very verbose tonight, Astrid. Point that light over here, will you?”

“His foot is missing.”

“Yes, we’ve already established that. Keep that light steady. You said he was conscious? Tell me about that.”

Fishlegs spoke in maddeningly calm tones and though normally Astrid would be annoyed by his blatant effort to distract her, this time the information she could give him might be useful.

“When I found him, he was exactly where he is now and he was awake. He looked at me and he—”

Astrid trailed off remembering his intensely green eyes and the way he’d said her name, tenderly and warmly, like he was glad to see her.

“And he?” Fishlegs prompted.

Astrid watched him as he gently wrapped a neck brace around the man’s neck before turning back to the device he’d attached to the man’s finger. He scribbled down some notes before glancing up at her. He frowned and shoved his glasses up his nose.

“You’re not going into shock on me, are you?”

Astrid glowered at him. “Of course not.”

“So, he looked at you and then what? Did he speak?”

“Yeah, in some other language.”

 _And he knew my name_. Astrid stopped short at telling Fishlegs that. She didn’t know what it all meant and maybe it was coincidence. Maybe he hadn’t said her name at all. Maybe she was reading too much into it, like she was his entire presence in the Village at all. Hadn’t she thought the wire thing poking out of his back was a _wing_? Maybe he was one of those skydivers with the weird wing suits. She frowned at the heavy leather suit he was wearing and that weird metal foot that had been _blown off_. Maybe they were having a costume night and something went wrong. Really wrong.

“Hm,” Fishlegs replied in a way that didn’t make Astrid feel any comfort.

“Is it safe to come in there?” Snotlout’s voice came through the open door from far away and Astrid rolled her eyes. “It’s not all bloody, is it? Is he dead?”

With a sigh, Fishlegs stood up and dropped his equipment back in his bag. He looked at Astrid and stopped short of rolling his eyes, then he walked to the door and stuck his head out.

“His vitals are good. Come in here and help me move him.”

“You did _not_ answer any of my questions,” Snotlout protested.

Astrid shook her head and lowered the flashlight, turning on her heel and stomping through the door. She flashed the beam on him where he stood, a good twenty feet away, his arms wrapped around a bright blue tarp and a length of yellow rope looped around his shoulder. He squinted in the beam of her industrial flashlight.

“Do you not understand _his vitals are good_? There’s no blood. Bring the tarp over here and go grab the stretcher from the pillar in the Town Square. We need to move him to the pavilion.”

“You said he didn’t have a foot!”

“He doesn’t. Hence we need a stretcher.”

“Astrid, I’m warning you, if there’s blood—”

“If there’s blood, it’s going to be yours. _Get over here_ ,” Astrid growled, finally losing her patience.

The day had been going so well. The Tuesday night crew all knew their roles so well; she hadn’t needed to babysit anyone. She had so much time to sit in the pavilion and plan out her exhibit. She had been counting on getting in a few pages of her thesis tonight, too, after everyone had gone. Astrid glanced over her shoulder at the man on the floor and sighed. She wasn’t going to get any of that done now. Even if he jumped up off the floor and magically grew a new left foot to walk on out of here, Astrid was still going to have to file an incident report and call Dr. Andersson.

Snotlout dropped the tarp and rope next to the building and peered through the door. Astrid sighed.

“It looks like his foot’s been missing for a while,” she told him.

He mouthed _ew_ at her and she rolled her eyes at him. “Come on, let’s get him into the pavilion. Then we’ll probably have to call nine-one-one like we should have to begin with.”

“I take offence to that,” Fishlegs said, looking over his glasses imperiously.

“Let’s just do this,” Astrid said, shaking her head.

She and Fishlegs carefully rolled the Man Who Fell Through the Roof onto his side while Snotlout slid the stretcher beneath him. They strapped him onto the stretcher and Astrid carefully placed her flashlight where his left foot should have been to light their way back to the main pavilion building as all three of them worked together to move him as slowly and carefully as they could.

“Do you think his neck is broken?” Astrid asked Fishlegs.

She was worried about the way she had turned his head when she’d come into the building, and again remembered those green eyes.

“Hard to say. I don’t _think_ so, but it’s better to be safe in situations like this. Where did he even come from?”

“That’s a question,” Astrid muttered, “My latest theory is skydiving gone wrong.”

Snotlout snorted at that. “Did you tell Fish how the guy knew your name?”

“ _What?_ ” Fishlegs practically shrieked, pausing in a way that made them all jam to a halt violently, nearly tipping the rogue skydiver onto the ground.

“ _Fish_ ,” Astrid growled, glaring at him.

He stared back at her with wide eyes. “You know this guy?”

“I absolutely do not,” Astrid said through gritted teeth.

“But he sure knows you,” Snotlout snickered.

She was going to kill him later. He was lucky her hands were occupied or she’d do it right now. She sent him a glare which only made him shrug and laugh harder, then she looked back to Fishlegs.

“We don’t even know if he said that. He was speaking a different language. Or he’s concussed. I don’t know, you’re the doctor,” Astrid said taking a step forward and hoping they’d follow.

“Hm,” Fishlegs hummed, “He might be concussed. I’ll be able to get a better look in the building.”

They walked a few steps in silence, the glow of the interior lights from the pavilion building clearer as they entered the Town Square. Then Snotlout just couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“He did say your name, though. I heard him.”

Astrid pretended not to hear him and doggedly ignored Fishlegs’ eyes on her. She needed to get this guy inside and then figure out what to do next. The sooner he was away from her, the better, especially since she had to clean up his mess. She already had Snot’s messes to mop up, she didn’t need any more on her plate, certainly not from a flying weirdo with a _knifr_ and a missing foot.

They brought him into the staff room, and Astrid moved the condiments and magazines from the lunch table so they could set the stretcher down. In the glare of the overhead fluorescent lights, the man’s injuries were more apparent. The right side of his face was starting to swell and bruise, he’d have a nasty black eye tomorrow, if he lived. There was dried blood trailing from the corner of his mouth and the leather suit he wore bore various nicks and scuffs as if this wasn’t the first time he’d found himself in a rough situation. Astrid’s eyes slid down the length of his narrow body, stopping on the mangled metal at the end of his left leg. She frowned at it, trying to wrap her head around why anyone would tote around a prosthetic that looked so _heavy_ when there were lighter options out there. Not that she really knew much about missing limbs and how to fix them, but there had to be, right? People didn’t limp around dragging their heavy iron-based replacement body parts with them. That wasn’t a thing. She wasn’t living in a world of medieval pirates (as much as she wished she was).

Fishlegs was already back at work again, shining a pen light in the man’s eyes and humming in a satisfied way. They should call 911. They should get this man some proper help. It wasn’t that Astrid didn’t trust Fishlegs, it was just that he wasn’t exactly a doctor yet. He was only halfway through med school. This wasn’t protocol, but then again, what was the protocol for people falling through roofs out of nowhere?

“I’m going to call nine-one-one,” she said, her voice even and authoritative.

Fishlegs glanced at her. “You can if you want. Or you can help me get this,” he paused, frowning, “ _suit_ off him so I can see what’s going on underneath.”

“What’s with this guy and knives?” Snotlout asked as he pulled a large knife out of the holster at the man’s hip.

Astrid’s eyes locked on the knife. Not a knife. Not a _knifr_ , either. It was too big and the shape was wrong. A _seax_ , a broken-back _seax_ , to be exact. One beautifully decorated at that. Astrid reached across and took it from Snotlout before he had a chance to protest, her gaze solidly fixed on the design worked into the blade.

“Hey!” he yelped in protest, hopping backwards as if that would save him from Astrid with a sharp knife, “Watch the goods!”

It was familiar in a way it really shouldn’t be, depicting waves of the sea and a dragon above them. Runes were worked into the blade near the well-worn handle in Elder Futhrak. She’d have to sit down with it to translate it. She _wanted_ to sit down with it to translate it.

“Oh good, she’s distracted by a knife. Snotlout, help me with these buckles,” Fishlegs said somewhere behind her.

Astrid turned the blade over to reveal more runes and excitement coursed through her. If it was a replica – and she didn’t know what else it could be – it was an extraordinary one. Of course it was a replica. The blade was too clean, too shiny to be anything else. It was polished and well-cared for, the kind of thing a weird cosplaying skydiver who fell through roofs would want to carry (though armed skydiving was probably not wise…nor legal). She ran her thumb over a rune she recognized - the rune for ‘chief’ - while another word stood out very distinctly. A word she would never forget in runes.

“Berk,” she whispered.

She knew there were important things to deal with here – like an unconscious injured man who should probably be taken to the hospital - but something about the design of the blade struck her as familiar in an uncomfortable way. Like she’d seen it before. Recently. She turned around, _seax_ in hand.

“Guys, there’s something weird about this,” she murmured.

“Oh, you mean a guy falling through the roof of the Genderless house wasn’t weird enough for you?” Snotlout said, looking up from the buckle he was struggling and failing to undo on the man’s chest.

Astrid scowled at him. She couldn’t even be bothered to correct him about the _Gunderson_ house, not when she had a suspiciously accurate _seax_ in her hand that had runes talking about a chief and Berk inscribed on it that had come off of the body of a stranger who knew her name, had a decimated metal peg leg, and fell from… _somewhere_ above them.  

“I’m serious,” she said.

“So am I! This guy is _weird_ ,” Snotlout said, grimacing as he looked down at the man on the table.

His auburn hair was darkened near the hairline with what looked like dried blood. If Astrid didn’t step in before Snotlout noticed the blood, he’d be covered in his puke, too, and that was hardly sanitary. She carefully set down the _seax_ on the counter, near the sink. She’d look at it later, when all this nonsense was _over_ and she had the time to translate runes to her heart’s content. She walked over and pushed Snotlout out of the way, barely acknowledging his sigh of relief. Then she set to tugging on the buckle with both hands and frowning at the fastness of the leather. This thing wasn’t made to come off easy. Astrid glanced at Fishlegs who was having more success with removing the man’s bracer from his arm (and yet another knife). She leaned in with more determination, the muscles in her shoulders burning from the effort of pulling on the strap. Her eyes strayed to the man’s face, pale and dotted with freckles, satisfying herself that he was still unconscious, and winced at the darkening, swelling bruise on the side of his face.

“Snot, can you get the ice pack out of the freezer and wrap it in some paper towel?” she called.

The least they could do was bring down the swelling on his face while they irresponsibly didn’t call 911. Astrid’s fingers burned and ached as she pulled at the strap, making minimal progress before Snotlout appeared, ice pack in hand.

“He looks like he was hit by a bus,” he remarked.

Astrid gave him a sidelong glance and took the ice pack from him. “Or maybe fell through the roof of a building?”

She pressed the ice pack against the side of the man’s face and looked at him, really looked at him – at the fine lines etched into his skin that spoke of a life harder than the one she’d known, at the small scar on his chin, another through one eyebrow, at his chapped lips and the fine layer of stubble along the sharp relief of his jaw. Combining all that with the unworldly green of his eyes, he might have been handsome were the circumstances different.

Astrid sighed. She shouldn’t be thinking of him in those terms, if she even was. It only served as more evidence to support Snotlout and Ruffnut’s campaign for her to get out more and date people who _weren’t_ somehow associated to either BVV or the university’s history department. That being said, last time she tried that, she’d ended up on a date with a guy in a kilt who only spoke in iambic pentameter. Maybe she just had bad taste in men. Maybe checking out an unconscious trespasser instead of _calling 911_ was a clear indication of something deeply wrong with her.

She shifted, pressing the ice pack into his temple a little more, and opened her mouth to suggest that they _reall_ y _, actually_ call someone when the man’s head twitched beneath her hand, a gasp escaping his lips. All three of them froze, their eyes locked on him. Was he dying? Had they waited too long and now he was _dying_? A thousand thoughts raced through Astrid’s mind as she considered how her budding academic career was going to be cut short when she was thrown in jail for criminal negligence, but those thoughts stopped suddenly when the man’s eyes blinked open, brilliant green irises around uneven pupils focusing on her face. His hand came up and covered hers over the ice pack, ragged callouses sending a shiver along her skin. He spoke again, and there was absolutely no mistaking it, accented or not. For the second time tonight, the stranger said her name.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, historical accuracy AND linguistic accuracy will be - and will continue to be - dubious at best.

“Astrid.”

The word hung in the slightly garlic-scented air of the Berk Viking Village staff room and Astrid forgot how to breathe. The Man Who Fell Through the Roof looked up at her, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, his hand still resting on hers, and there was something… _something_ about him that tugged at her. Something that didn’t make sense.

“Ha!” Snotlout shouted, making Astrid jump and killing the magical connection between her and the mysterious skydiver. “I _told_ you he knew your name.”

Astrid sucked in a sharp breath and released it in a huff, pulling her hand out from under the man’s and standing upright, her eyes anywhere but on his face.

“Good, you’re awake,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically shaky.

The man replied rapidly in a guttural language strangely dissonant with the nasal intonation of his voice. Astrid frowned because, though she could be mistaken, one of those words sounded like Valhalla.

“Oh my, you’re right. That _is_ a foreign language,” Fishlegs said unhelpfully as he leaned over the man’s face, pen light in hand again. “And he’s definitely concussed.”

“We should call nine-one-one,” Astrid said, her voice in monotone.

“Not that again,” Fishlegs sighed.

The man spoke again, his eyes wide and locked on Fishlegs.

“Did he just say fist fighter?” Snotlout asked, creeping closer. He snorted at Fishlegs. “Sounds like he doesn’t know you at all.”

Fishlegs gave him a severe frown and went back into his medical bag, ignoring the man completely in favour of some medical device. Astrid watched him idly as he pulled out various and sundry medical supplies that he really had no business already owning given he wasn’t a doctor yet. She wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking; did he think she was going to let him do surgery on the lunch room table? People had to _eat_ here tomorrow.

“Ask him who he is,” Snotlout stage whispered, nudging Astrid’s elbow, his eyes locked on the man like he was a wild animal and not an injured human in a neck brace.

“You ask him who he is,” she spat back, “I don’t know what he’s saying.”

Snotlout scowled at her. “Fine, I will. I’m not afraid of cosplayers.”

He crept closer still to the man on the table. “Hey buddy,” he said, his voice a mockery of Fishlegs’ soothing tones, “How’s it going, my dude? Probably pretty rough since you fell through a roof.”

“Snotlout?”

Though accented, like Astrid’s name there was no mistaking it. All three of them froze again, their eyes on the man. Astrid barked out a sharp laugh, a nervous reflex in the face of all this ridiculousness and Snotlout turned wide eyes on her.

“Did he just—” he started.

Astrid smirked. “Oh yeah.” At least she wasn’t the only one this guy seemed to know. “Not so funny anymore, is it? Maybe he’s one of _your_ Viking cosplay guys from Tinder.”

Snotlout turned back to the man, narrowing his eyes and leaning in. He took his time considering and then said, “No, I’d remember swiping right on this one.”

Undeterred by their collective discomfort with him, the man laughed and launched forward again in his rapid, throaty language. Astrid heard her name and Snotlout’s and whatever it was he’d called Fishlegs, and again, distinctly now that her ears were open to it, “Valhalla”. She wasn’t the only one who heard it.

“Did he just say ‘Valhalla’?” Fishlegs asked, mildly alarmed.

Astrid frowned and nodded slowly, staring at the man lying on the lunch table, grinning despite his swollen face and missing foot. He knew at least two of them and Astrid didn’t know what to make of that. Every instinct she had told her to call the police, and yet she stood there, paralyzed not by fear but by indecision. Despite her decidedly strange taste in men, she led a relatively uneventful life. She studied the long-dead Viking ancestors of Berk - that was her passion. There was hardly any excitement that could come out of that. Hell, the most exciting thing she had going was the axe-throwing league she competed in on Wednesday nights, and that was mostly made up of drunk university students and bearded guys who ran farmer’s market stalls on the weekend for a living.

Safe. Berk was safe. Given this man’s propensity to fall through roofs while bearing arms and knowing both her and Snotlout’s names, he was decidedly _not_ safe.

The man was babbling again, non-stop, like talking wildly was all he knew how to do. Astrid watched him as he tried and failed to turn his neck to talk at Fishlegs, the neck brace keeping him in place. He frowned more in confusion than anger, his hands coming up to the brace, long fingers running along the edges.

Astrid’s heart picked up its pace at once. He said something about Valhalla again and her brain kicked into overdrive. What if he was some sort of crazy assassin man sent to kill her and Snotlout? She ran through the list of people she knew who might wish her harm and came up short. _Oh god_ , she thought, _it’s probably one of Snot’s crazy exes_.

“Snot—” she started, but she never got the chance to chase that wild line of thought before the man tore off the neck brace and started to sit up.

“No!” Fishlegs cried.

Astrid lunged across the space she’d been leaving between her and the man, grabbing his shoulder to…what? Stop him? Steady him? She didn’t even know what she hoped to accomplish; she was running on instinct. But one thing was for sure, he wasn’t attacking Fishlegs on her watch. He turned his head toward her, heavy brows low, but when his eyes met hers his face opened up and he smiled at her, slowly and almost goofily.

She felt stupid in that moment – stupid for thinking that he was there to hurt her. And she felt stupid for thinking that he wasn’t. She didn’t know him, this stranger who came from nowhere, but all she could think was that she was right. With that crooked grin and the colour returning to his face, freckles dotting his skin, he _was_ handsome.

Clearly she was the one who needed her head examined. Fishlegs stepped forward, fingers moving along the man’s neck while he was distracted by Astrid. The man pulled back, frowning at Fishlegs and muttering something that Astrid could only assume was a command to not touch him. Fishlegs’ hands fell away and he sighed.

“I guess his neck’s not broken.”

“You think?” Astrid growled. “This is crazy. We need to call someone.”

The man said something, his voice close enough to her ear that the hairs on her neck rose up in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She turned a glare on him, but instead found herself caught in his green eyes again. This close, he smelled like a wood fire - like a campfire in the middle of autumn, when the air was crisp and the comforting scent of decaying leaves lingered along the forest’s edge. There were other scents, too: leather and sea spray and something else. Something…animal.

“Well, may as well swing him around this way,” Fishlegs said, “Let’s get that…jacket off him.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Astrid asked.

She looked at the man, whose eyes never left her, and motioned to the other side of the table like she was Vanna White. He glanced at Fishlegs and then back to Astrid.

“Swing your legs around,” she said slowly, making a turning motion with her hands.

The man shrugged, but did what she wanted at last. Fishlegs moved in, his hands going to the buckles on the front of the man’s armour, only to be met with protest again as the man pushed his hands away, glaring at him and muttering something in his language.

“What is that?” Snotlout asked from the corner of the lunchroom, “German? No. Hans never sounded like that. It’s like…wrong German.”

“What are you talking about?” Astrid snapped at him.

Fishlegs sighed, drawing her attention back to him. “Astrid, please.”

“What do you want _me_ to do?” she asked, incredulously.

“He likes you. Get him to undress,” Fishlegs said dismissively, waving his hand toward the man.

“Are you _serious_ right now?” Astrid hissed.

Snotlout chuckled and Astrid shot him a glare. He didn’t see it because he was too busy looking at his phone and Astrid had a mind to rip from his hands and chuck it at the wall. She controlled the urge because that’s what adults did, after all, otherwise there’d be broken smartphones all over Berk.

“Would you mind helping us?” she asked as politely as she could to Snotlout.

He didn’t look up. “Nah. Fish is right. You’re the one with the best chance of getting him undressed.”

“Snotlout,” she growled through gritted teeth.

“Remember Helga?” he asked, completely tone deaf to her rage, “Where was she from again? Norway? No, Sweden?”

Astrid rolled her eyes, giving up on any sense in the room, including her own. Against her own better judgement, she rounded the table and approached the man, who was still swatting away Fishlegs as he tried again to remove the jacket…thing.

“Let me try,” Astrid sighed.

Fishlegs stepped out of the way and Astrid moved forward, standing directly in front of the man. He immediately stilled, smiling at her again. She winced at his bruised face. When she was twelve, she’d wiped out skiing once. Rolled down Raven Point and whacked her head on a tree. After all the panic about head trauma had passed, what she’d actually ended up with was a really large, really ugly bruise on the side of her face, kind of like the one this guy had right now. She’d never forget how much it hurt.

“That has to hurt,” she said softly.

She reached her hands out tentatively, her fingers falling on the buckle on his chest she’d been working on earlier. She pulled at it hesitantly and the man chuckled gently, murmuring something and then her name again. She looked him in the eyes, as though looking at him would help her understand him better. It _would_ , of course, that’s how communication _worked_ after all, but she was looking for something deeper. Something _more_.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” she said, surprised that her voice sounded regretful.

He narrowed his eyes at her, his lips pursed. Then he said something that sounded just as regretful.

Then, they both drew in a breath, puffing out their cheeks and releasing it at the same time. They looked at each other, shocked, and both laughed. There was really nothing else Astrid could think to do. Fishlegs turned from his bag and peered around Astrid’s shoulder. Snotlout even looked up from his phone.

“What happened?” he asked from across the room.

Astrid shook her head without answer, a smile on her lips. She pulled at the buckle, tugging with all her might and getting nowhere. Then the man’s hands covered hers, his long fingers pulling hers away from the buckle. He mumbled something, shaking his head, his eyebrows raised as he pulled at the buckle himself, easily releasing it. Astrid scrunched up her nose, sending him a dark look.

“Show off.”

“Astrid,” Fishlegs said from behind her, “Remember the goal.”

She resisted the urge to turn around and stick her tongue out at him because that was another thing that adults didn’t do. Why, she really couldn’t say. Sometimes it was the best response she could come up with to the garbage the world flung at her. She turned back to the other buckles, but the man had already undone them. He winced as he rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck now that the jacket thing had been loosened. Astrid caught sight of the shirt the man wore beneath. It wasn’t a cotton t-shirt or some sort of sweat-wicking thing. Like his armour, it skirted the edge of period clothing. She reached through the opening of his jacket and fingered the shirt, knowing what it was before her hand touched it. Green wool, coarsely woven, like the shirts that Dr. Andersson insisted the men in BVV wear. The shirts that Snotlout kept butchering to be v-necks claiming that the wool was getting caught on his chest hair.

She didn’t realize how close she’d moved in until she heard the man’s nasal-intoned laughter in her ear. Astrid pulled her hand back in shock, stepping backward into Fishlegs and earning herself a yelp and a glare.

“Astrid, really.”

“Sorry.”

The man said something that Astrid wished she could understand based on the amused grin he wore. And that’s when Snotlout appeared, shoving his phone into the man’s face.

“Get him to say something,” he insisted.

The man recoiled from the phone, frowning in much the same way as he had at Fishlegs. He wasn’t threatened, merely annoyed, and a lot more annoyed than he should be given he didn’t know any of them. Except that somehow he did.

“Snot, what are you doing?” Astrid asked, her eyes on the man’s face.

“An experiment,” he said, grinning.

“Snotlout.”

“Helga! Remember Helga? She sounded like him. I know it.”

Astrid sighed, rolling her eyes, and the man laughed, and said something.

Snotlout pulled his phone back, watching the screen enthusiastically. “This is it,” he said.

The phone dinged and an electronic female voice said: “I’m sorry I didn’t get that.”

The man stared at Snotlout’s phone, entranced. He said something that started with Valhalla and ended with…something else. Something that started with a G, maybe?

“Gah! I didn’t get that! Say it again!” Snotlout insisted, shoving the phone in the man’s face.

The man grabbed at it, trying to pull it out of Snotlout’s hand. Snotlout yelped in protest, tugging the phone back into his chest protectively.

“Crazy dude,” he muttered.

“What are you doing?” Astrid repeated, annoyed.

“It’s actually quite sensible, Astrid,” Fishlegs piped up, pushing her out of the way and attempting to get the man to pull his jacket off all the way with a series of over the top mimed movements that only made the man frown at him like he was insane, “He’s using a translation app. For Snotlout, that’s a stroke of genius.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Snotlout said, “Maybe she was Swedish.”

“Oh my god, Snot. Which one was Helga?” Astrid said, watching as the man hesitantly pulled his jacket off.

“The blonde with the braids.”

“That’s helpful.”

“She was Swedish or something.”

“Given your inclination toward foreign exchange students, that also doesn’t help.”

“I don’t know. She dumped me on Valentine’s Day?”

“Which Valentine’s Day? You have a trend there.”

Fishlegs flailed his arms around trying to get the man to take his woolen tunic off – because that’s what it was, a woolen tunic, and Astrid could barely stand anything that was happening right now. She pushed Fishlegs out of the way and grabbed the hem of the man’s shirt, pulling it upward, pausing when their eyes met and though he probably actually had a fever or something, she could have sworn he was blushing a little. Still, he complied, letting her pull the shirt off all the way.

Astrid really shouldn’t have been able to see anything beyond the row of evenly spaced bruises that ran down the man’s chest, but instead she was distracted by the swell of his well-defined shoulders and the bulk of his biceps and chest. He was built differently than Snotlout, whose workout routine consisted of isolated exercises that were targeted for cosmetics. This man had the body of a person who _used_ it as it was intended. Long, lean muscles that hid unexpected strength. Her eyes brushed past potential injuries on his chest (she wasn’t a _doctor_ – Fishlegs could worry about those) and trailed down to his stomach. She swallowed heavily. She’d never seen a real, live person with movie star abs before. It was…disconcerting.

Fishlegs shoved her out of the way and Astrid closed her eyes, shaking her head to clear it. Something was definitely wrong with her. The man looked up at her as though seeking reassurance and she gave him a tight, weak smile. Why, she couldn’t say. He was still a trespasser, someone who had literally fallen through the roof of a building in her workplace at night armed to the teeth with replica Viking weapons. She shouldn’t be giving him any sympathy at all.

Maybe it was innate, something brought on by his bruised face and the fact that he was unquestionably handsome and surprisingly more built that she would have expected looking at him with his clothes on. Astrid rolled her eyes and groaned, thumping herself in the forehead with the heel of her hand. There was _obviously_ something wrong with her.

“Whoa,” Snotlout gasped.

Astrid looked up right away, alarmed and half-expecting there to be more knives, but instead all she saw was Snotlout staring slack-jawed at their shirtless interloper. At least she wasn’t alone in her idiocy; she could always count on Snot to be equally as stupid, if not more so.

“I _definitely_ would have remembered swiping right on this one.”

Astrid shook her head, her eyes pointed toward the ceiling. “Have you figured out where Helga was from yet?” she asked, trying to get him back on task.

His eyes met hers and his mouth opened like he was going to say something before snapping shut again like a fish, his attention back on his phone. “Maybe it was Finland.”

Astrid’s attention was pulled back to the table again when the man yelped and shifted away, glaring at Fishlegs.

“Well, those are definitely bruises,” he said like he’d just discovered something ground-breaking.

“And how did you figure that one out? By poking already obvious bruises?” Astrid remarked dryly.

“Just remember, _you_ called _me_ ,” he said, his nose in the air.

“Actually, Snot did. My vote has always been for nine-one-one.”

“And yet you still haven’t called them.”

He was right, of course. She hadn’t. And she had no excuse other than the weird niggling sensation she had that there was something more to this foreign, _weird_ intruder. Something that kept staying her hand. A gut feeling, an intuition. The kind of things she felt when she was almost at the point of discovery when translating old Berkian texts.

Her eyes strayed to the man again, who was now holding onto the bell of Fishlegs’ stethoscope, inspecting it with a fascinated expression on his face. It was almost like he’d never seen one before. It was almost… Astrid shook her head again. No, she wasn’t going down that road. Things were weird enough without her delving into the realms of fantasy. That was the sort of thing that led her to dates with Viking cosplayers instead of completely reasonable men.

A flash of red on the man’s chest caught her eye. At first she thought it must be more blood, but as he moved – as Fishlegs flailed around trying to reclaim his stethoscope – Astrid realized it was a tattoo. Her heart skipped a beat, her stomach twisting in the same way it had when she’d seen the _seax_. She knew that design. She’d seen it before. A dragon, sleekly curled into itself. Not just any dragon, but a Night Fury, rare and lethal. The tattoo was on the left side of his chest, adorned over his heart. And on the right…

Astrid gasped. She knew that, too. A brand, seared cruelly and angrily into the flesh. A stylized dragon head, the mark of a well-known tyrant who’d plagued Berk and the surrounding archipelago in the years leading up to the fall of Berk in Viking times.

“Drago Bludvist,” she whispered.

The man had been laughing at Fishlegs, but at the sound of the name his face fell, the stethoscope slipping from his fingers. The colour he’d gained back drained from his face and he glanced around the room as though he expected the warlord to appear from around the corner.

“That means something to him,” Fishlegs said.

“That’s impossible,” Astrid said, her eyes on the man as he reached for something along his thigh.

“Why?”

“Because Drago Bludvist was a warlord in the eleventh century,” Astrid said, nodding, “Hang on a second.”

She turned and ran through the dark hallways of the main pavilion, twisting and turning down the familiar path to the research room where her dragon exhibit was laid out in pieces. She rushed by that table, ignoring the growing murmur of voices from the staff room as she made her way to the bookshelf along the back wall. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books until she found what she was looking for – _Berk Viking Village: A History_ by Dr. V. Andersson. She flipped through the book as she walked back to the staff room, completely oblivious to the commotion that awaited her as she skimmed through passages until she found the one she was after.

“—oh my GOD, it’s a sword—”

“—put it AWAY, my DUDE—”

“Here!” she exclaimed, weaving past Fishlegs and Snotlout and dropping the book on the lunch table beside the man.

She pointed to a photograph of a scroll found in the Henderman dig of 1827 which bore the very same dragon that the man had tattooed on his chest.

“Astrid.”

Snotlout’s voice was tinged with disbelief and if she wasn’t a little mistaken, a hint of fear. Astrid looked up from the book and it was only then that she noticed the rush of heat emanating from the other side of the table, only then that she saw the glow of orange flames.

“Oh shit!” she exclaimed jumping backward when her eyes landed on the flaming sword in the man’s hand.

But his eyes were on the book and with the flick of his thumb, the fire was gone and the sword folded back up into its handle. Astrid stared at the innocuous cylinder in his hand and she reached for it without much thought. She almost had it, too, until the man realized she was after it, huffed at her in an amused way, and tucked it back in the sheath on the side of his thigh. He reached for her book and she yanked it into her chest, glaring at him.

“This is the only copy I have,” she hissed.

You’d think that a book written by the director of the site would be available in abundance, but as it turned out there wasn’t a huge market for Viking textbooks, especially not those specifically dedicated to the strange and unorthodox ways of Berk, theories and evidence that were not well-regarded in academic circles. The book was out of print and Astrid was not going to let a flying weirdo, no matter how good looking, get his hands on it.

The man gave her an apologetic smile and held his hands up in supplication. Astrid was annoyed by how readily that worked on her, because she was already lowering the book so he could see.

“It’s a Night Fury,” she explained for the benefit of Fishlegs and Snotlout, “A favourite of the chief of Berk at the time of its downfall.”

As the words fell from her lips, something solidified inside her. Something about the man and this night, about the _seax_ and the dragon tattoo and the Bludvist brand. Something about the last chief of Berk. Something… _something_ … She raised her eyes and he looked up at her, too, pointing at the scroll and saying a word she’d heard before, once or twice, at some point in her life. Something familiar, again.

“ _Minn._ ”

“Yours,” she whispered, her eyes dropping to the scroll in the picture.

Astrid was distracted enough by the word clicking in her head that she barely noticed when he gently pulled the book into his lap and leaned into it. He said something in this weird language and Astrid’s eyes focused on the brand on his chest. People didn’t get brands for fun. Brands weren’t a fashion statement or a trend, certainly not those of tyrants from the eleventh century. Brands were a symbol of ownership, a punishment and a mark. People didn’t willingly walk into brands, even weirdos who cosplayed while skydiving.

People didn’t cosplay while skydiving.

 _Minn_. Mine. She knew where she’d heard it, of course. Someone like Astrid didn’t have an obsession with the Viking way of life and _not_ try to learn Old Norse at some point. She listened to the trills in his words, to the combined sounds and the guttural edges to his sentences and swallowed hard.

“Snotlout, was Helga Icelandic?” she asked quietly.

“What?”

“Was she from Iceland? Reykjavik. Wasn’t she from Reykjavik?” she insisted, her eyes still on the man who was flipping through her precious textbook with interest.

“Wait…yes! Yes, I think that’s it!” Snotlout said.

Astrid nodded, still not looking at him. Of course it was. She knew it was. There was only one explanation and that explanation really made no sense, but it is was right in front of her. Literally in front of her.

“Try that,” she whispered.

“Astrid, really,” Fishlegs tried to interject, but she shook her head.

“Try it.”

“Okay. I’ll type ‘what’s your name’,” Snotlout said slowly as he typed.

The app read back his question once in English before translating it into Icelandic and reading it out in a monotone, electronic voice: “ _Hvað heitir þú_?“

The man looked up from the book, astonished. His eyes were locked on Snotlout’s phone, wavering in the air nearby as the three of them looked on. Then he looked up at Astrid, his astonishment stretching into a smile. He said something quickly, but the cadence and curl of his words sounded more and more familiar. Icelandic wasn’t a perfect match to Old Norse. There would be gaps, of course, but structurally it was as close as they were going to get right now.

Astrid took a step forward as Fishlegs and Snotlout exchanged their own astonishment about the dubious success they’d just had. She looked the man in his unreasonably green eyes and pointed out her friends.

“Snotlout. Fishlegs,” she paused, pressing her hand into her chest, “And my name is Astrid. What is your name?” she asked, moving her fingertips from her own chest and touching them lightly to his.

“Hiksti.”

“Translation: Hiccup,” Snotlout’s phone announced.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments on the last chapter. I apologize that I haven't been able to respond to them individually yet; I've been out of the country and I'm struggling with pretty profound jet lag. I hope to be able to respond soon! In the meantime, thanks so much for reading. :)
> 
> As always, this story's historical and linguistic accuracy will remain dubious at best. Suspend your disbelief or run. ;)

Astrid was going insane. That was the only explanation for the thoughts racing through her head. She must be tired; that had to be it. Tired, or insane. Those were the only possible reasons she had for entertaining the concept that the man sitting on the lunchroom table with the impressive knife collection, the metal peg leg, and the Bludvist brand on his chest was some sort of… _time traveler_. And what made it worse were all the pieces of Berk history bombarding her as she thought it – plausible pieces of information that fit this stranger into the role of _Viking_.

“There must be something wrong with this app,” Snotlout said, his voice jarring her out of her wild flight of fancy, “Hiccup isn’t a name. Did it ask him what his favourite bodily function was? Maybe this is why Helga broke up with me.”

Astrid drew in a sharp breath and looked over her shoulder. “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the app that made her break up with you.”

“Harsh, Hofferson. I’d like to take this moment to point out that _I_ have never been caught in bed with a Viking cosplayer.”

“I don’t know, you looked at this guy pretty hard,” Astrid quipped back.

Her brain was on auto, still working through all the ways it would be possible for a man to travel through time and space to land in the Gunderson house of the BVV, like that was a more reasonable explanation than cosplaying skydiving.

“I said that I’ve never been _caught in bed_ with a Viking cosplayer. Please respect the distinction, Astrid.”

Astrid snorted in spite of herself, turning back to the man on the table. Hiksti. He said his name was Hiksti and she should start referring to him as such. He rubbed his forehead with the heel of one hand, the other barely holding on to her precious copy of _Berk Viking Village: A History,_ and the reality of this whole slightly wild night came flying at her. A man had fallen through the roof of the Gunderson house. He was injured. They didn’t know anything about him other than his name was Hiksti, which apparently translates to Hiccup in Icelandic (and maybe Old Norse?) and he had a really ridiculous collection of (replica?) Viking knives bearing runes that spoke of Berk. Of a chief of Berk. They didn’t even sell that kind of stuff in the gift store. If he was some sort of Viking fanboy, wouldn’t he have gotten a job here like Astrid had? Wouldn’t he have immersed himself in the culture and the history of it all? Astrid’s mind strayed to the (extremely accurate) replica battle axe she had hanging on her apartment wall and she frowned. Maybe he was a fanboy after all.

Her eyes slid to the tattoo on his chest, over his heart. A dragon. Wasn’t there a saying somewhere? Hadn’t she seen it? Heart of a dragon, soul of a… _what_? Or was it soul of a dragon, heart of a… _something_? Where had she even seen that? Or heard it? The click of Fishlegs’ medical bag drew Astrid’s attention away from the brazen tattoo on Hiksti’s chest.

“Where are you going?” she asked, suddenly panicked.

She couldn’t do this without her friends. Sure, she’d have Snot, but she knew as soon as they got home, he’d have a beer and pass out and she’d be… What would she be? What the hell was she supposed to do with Hiksti?

“Well, he’s clearly stable. He’s got a concussion, as we’ve already established. He might have a broken rib, but there’s no evidence that it’s doing anything nasty,” Fishlegs said with a shrug, pulling his phone out of his back pocket.

“ _What_?”

“Is that all you know how to say?” Snotlout said, glancing up from his phone.

“Someone has to ask the important questions,” Fishlegs said with a smirk.

On second thought, maybe she didn’t need them at all. They were clearly just here to torment her in this life. It made her wonder what she’d done wrong in a past life to lead to this kind of treatment. All she wanted was a quiet life studying Vikings. She was aware of the irony of that statement given Vikings had lived anything but a quiet life, especially the Vikings on Berk. Especially those under the rule of the last chief. Astrid’s eyes strayed to Hiksti again and got stuck there as she watched him stretch his arms over his head, readily displaying the long, lean muscles of his torso.

“Snot, go get him a shirt,” she said, unable to tear her eyes away, her cheeks burning up.

Snotlout looked up from his phone and snorted. “Somebody’s _thirsty_.”

Astrid tore her eyes away to glare at him. He responded with the roll of his eyes. “Fine,” he said, putting his phone on the counter. He reached for the hem of his own shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“You said he needed a shirt.”

“Not yours!”

“Though it _is_ admirable that you’d be willing to give the shirt off your own back,” Fishlegs added.

Astrid huffed, pointing her glare in his direction instead. He didn’t notice, his eyes on his phone again.

“Who are you texting?” Astrid asked, a spike of fear stabbing through her chest. Maybe she was going into shock after all.

“Heather,” he replied without looking up.

“Why?”

“What shirt do you want me to give him then?” Snotlout interrupted.

“There’s a box in the storage closet.”

“Those awful Hairy Hooligan Tribe shirts?” he asked with obvious distaste.

Astrid felt a rush of warmth toward her best friend. Chances were his dislike of the shirts was second hand from hearing her complain about them nonstop two summers ago, but she still appreciated the sentiment. The whole Hairy Hooligans Tribe thing had been a last ditch effort by the former site director to gain family interest in the Village through a gimmicky, terrible stage show that was put on nightly. No one liked it, even from the point of conception. Not the staff, not the tourists, and definitely not the kids it aimed to entertain. The end result was boxes and boxes of god awful t-shirts bearing the image of a rotund, very hairy bearded Viking with a horned helmet and the words “Hairy Hooligans Have More Fun”. Frankly, Astrid was surprised Dr. Andersson hadn’t burned them all along with the historically inaccurate costumes. It was a good thing she hadn’t because now Astrid had something to put on this shirtless skydiver that no one would miss.

“Yes,” she said, with a grin, “One of those.”

Snotlout sneered and made a disgusted noise in response as he turned out of the room and headed down the hall. Hiksti watched him go, turning back suddenly and catching Astrid watching him. He smiled in a tentative way that made her heart flutter unexpectedly. He looked at her like she was the only person in the room and she couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at her like that. Maybe no one ever had. She shook her head at herself and reached around him to the forgotten ice pack. She readjusted the paper towel, her eyes on her shaking hands and not on his bare skin, even as she handed it to him. He frowned at it, but took it from her, reluctantly handing her back her textbook in favour of turning the ice pack over in his hands like it was a mystery. Astrid sighed.

“For your face,” she explained slowly.

He blinked big green eyes with uneven pupils at her and she reached out, lifting his hand to the side of his face and pressing it against his skin. He jumped a little at the contact, but visibly relaxed through the shoulders, his eyes sliding shut as the cold settled in. Astrid stepped back and turned around to Fishlegs.

“Why are you texting Heather?” she asked again, setting the textbook down on a chair well in her line of sight.

He looked over his glasses at her. “She might have an opening in x-ray tonight.”

“Never mind. I don’t want to know what you two do in your spare time.”

“Astrid, please. There’s no need to be vulgar,” Fishlegs said imperiously, his cheeks pinking.

Astrid raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say anything vulgar.”

Fishlegs gave his shoulders an uncomfortable shuffle before looking her in the eye, cheeks practically red now. “I meant she had an opening for _him_ ,” he said, looking past her at Hiksti.

Astrid turned back to Hiksti, shocked to find him watching their exchange with interest. He looked uncomfortable and tired, which was probably fair given he had fallen through a roof less than an hour ago and apparently had a concussion and potentially, a broken rib.

“You want to do an x-ray on him?” she asked, “And who’s going to pay for that?”

“I’m sure he has insurance.”

Astrid turned back to Fishlegs, eyebrows raised high. “Are you now?”

Fishlegs looked back at her, his eyes widening. “We should check his clothes for ID.”

“Here you go, my dude,” Snotlout said, marching back into the lunchroom with a handful of shirts.

“He only needs one,” Astrid said flatly.

“I don’t know what size he is!”

Astrid crossed the space between them and grabbed the first one out of Snotlout’s hands. She tossed it at Hiksti and he caught it readily with his free hand, lowering the ice pack so he could look at the shirt. The deep frown on his face was almost comical.

“You put it over your head, buddy,” Snotlout said.

Astrid groaned. “I’m sure he knows how to put on a shirt.”

Fishlegs started going through the various pockets on Hiksti’s jacket…thing while Hiksti was distracted putting on the shirt. It was obviously a small based on the way it clung to his muscles, the ridiculous Viking character blatantly on display, and Astrid found herself staring again. She kept waiting for Snotlout to make a snide comment about her thirst level, but when it didn’t come, she glanced over to see him watching in equal thrall. At least she wasn’t alone in this, although it did concern her that she and Snotlout shared similar taste in men. That was hardly a good sign.

“Hi!” Hiksti exclaimed, pulling his jacket out of Fishlegs’ hands.

He ranted sharply in his guttural language, irritation plain on his face, and plucked a long metal device out of Fishlegs’ hands, glaring at him. It took Astrid a minute to realize he was probably just exclaiming, saying ‘hey!’ essentially and not saying “hi” in English. Fishlegs held his hands up and shook his head.

“You’re right about the x-ray, Astrid. It would be impossible.”

“Well, maybe you should consider asking for permission before you start going through his stuff. Just because he doesn’t speak our language doesn’t mean you can take his things,” Snotlout said, walking over to Hiksti. “Hey, my dude. You got any ID? Wait, hang on.”

He typed into his phone and an electronic voice asked something in Icelandic. Hiksti frowned at Snotlout, his face scrunching up in abject disbelief in a way that almost made Astrid burst out laughing.

“Hik-sti,” he said very slowly, enunciating each syllable clearly.

“I don’t think this guy gets it at all,” Snotlout said.

Astrid bit back a laugh as Hiksti widened his eyes at her, shook his head and shrugged like Snotlout was stupid.

“Oh, I think he gets it fine,” she said.

Astrid took Snot’s phone out of his hand, ignoring his weak protests, and typed in the question: “Who are you?”

Hiksti frowned at the phone when it read it back in Icelandic and Astrid could only guess that it was one of those times where the Icelandic was different enough from Old Norse to make it sound a little wrong. (She was still stuck on Old Norse. She was still stuck on her insane idea. She was probably going into shock. Or losing her mind. One or the other.) Hiksti looked her in the eye and she primed the phone to catch his words as he spoke.

She recognized his name, or at least Hiksti – there could have been more to it – and he very distinctly said Berk. When she looked down at the phone, it read “Hiccup Terrible Haddock chief of Berk”. Astrid looked up at him, her whole body buzzing with adrenaline.

“That’s impossible,” she murmured, even as he looked back at her, his eyes willing her to understand.

“What did he say?” Snotlout asked, stretching up onto his toes and trying to read the phone.

Astrid rapidly cleared the query history and shoved the phone at Snotlout, turning away from Hiksti. “We have things we have to do now. There’s paperwork. I have to call Dr. Andersson. We have to get a tarp up on that roof.”

“But, what about him?” Fishlegs asked, his eyes on Hiksti.

Or Hiccup Horrendous Haddock, Chief of Berk. Because there was never a Hiccup _Terrible_ Haddock, Chief of Berk – that was just a bad translation. There were however, at least two Hiccup Horrendous Haddocks who had led Berk, and if you listened to some historians, there might have even been three. Dr. Andersson was a believer in that theory, Astrid wasn’t so sure. She eyed Hiksti speculatively, annoyed that her gaze kept sliding to him.

Let’s say she took his word. Let’s say she followed her crazy idea down the garden path to Insanityville. If he was Hiccup Horrendous Haddock, Chief of Berk who had traveled through time and fallen through the roof of the Gunderson house (the more she thought about it, the crazier it made her feel), which one was he? His clothes were all wrong for any of them.

But if she considered the Bludvist brand and the dragon tattoo, really there was only one option: Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third. But whether he was ever a chief at all was up for debate because he would have been little more than a teenager when Berk fell, if he existed at all. Some scrolls say he died at fifteen. Some scrolls say a Dragon Master took over Berk in his stead. Some say he never existed at all, some that he simply _disappeared._

Astrid stared at him and shook her head. “No,” she told herself, “You will not do this. It’s insane.”

“She’s talking to herself again,” Snot said to Fish.

“What else is new? Astrid, what are we going to do with our new friend? Still want to call nine-one-one?”

Astrid shook her head. No, no she did not. And she didn’t want to call Dr. Andersson either. She wanted to figure this out. She wanted to fish out the lie. She wanted to know the truth and why this guy knew them and what he wanted and who he _really_ was. Because he wasn’t a potentially non-existent, long dead former chief of Berk. That was _literally_ impossible.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

Hiksti clutched at his head again, picking up the ice pack and pressing it back into the bruised side of his face. Fishlegs moved in, dipping his head down to look into Hiksti’s face. Hiksti frowned at him distrustfully and Fish sighed, standing upright again.

“Well, he’s concussed and should rest.”

Fishlegs looked at Astrid with meaning, as though she was the reason the guy was still awake and sitting on the lunch table. Snotlout yawned loudly as though to accentuate the _rest_ recommendation. If Astrid gave herself a minute to come down from her adrenaline high, she knew she’d be exhausted, too. The thought of falling into her bed was so welcome in the face of everything that had happened. It would be nice to close her eyes and forget about it all for a solid eight hours. She glanced over at Hiksti and noticed he’d closed his eyes.

“Is it okay that he’s like that?” she asked, remembering the way her mother had insisted she not fall asleep when she had hit that tree all those years ago.

Fishlegs glanced at him and turned back to her, one eyebrow cocked. “I would assume that falling through a roof from an undetermined height would be exhausting. I know treating him has been exhausting. Having this conversation is exhausting. Are you sure you’re not going into shock?”

Astrid scowled. No, she wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t going to admit it. “I’m fine. I’m just…thinking.”

“This could take a while,” Snotlout sighed, leaning against the counter, his elbow grazing the edge of the _seax_ , the handle clattering against the countertop.

Hiksti’s eyes cracked open, falling on Astrid. Always falling on Astrid.

“Well, he can’t sleep here,” she murmured.

Snotlout yawned again, loudly, and Astrid almost snapped at him to stop being so dramatic, it couldn’t be later than nine. But, the glowing blue numbers on the microwave told her otherwise. It was quarter to ten. Where the hell had the time gone?

The time. She found herself staring at Hiksti again. He noticed, his eyes brightening in a hopeful way.

“Let’s just bring him back to our place,” Snotlout suggested, “It’s late and we have a couch. Let him crash.”

“He already did that,” Astrid said before she could stop herself.

“Ha ha,” Fish said flatly, “But there’s something to that, Astrid. We don’t know who he is. He doesn’t have ID. We could call nine-one-one as you have suggested _so many_ times, but then he’ll either be staying the night in a hospital bed or in a jail cell, depending on how seriously they take trespassing by sky.”

“I have to…” she trailed off, no longer sure that she _had_ to do anything.

She had to leave a note for the morning crew, at least. Building 14 would have to be closed off and restored. Someone would have to put up a tarp over the hole in the roof. Technically, she had to call Dr. Andersson and make a report, but there was no point in waking her over something she couldn’t do anything about. The weather forecast was uncharacteristically clear for Berk – no rain in the foreseeable future. The worst that could happen is the morning crew might have to shoo out a raccoon from the Gunderson house. It wouldn’t be the first time, and that was without a hole in the roof.

And she was tired. This whole thing was tiring. She obviously needed to sleep because she was _speculating_ wildly, which was not like her at all. A sober and well-rested Astrid Hofferson would _never_ jump to insane conclusions like… _time travel_. She’d been hanging out with the twins too much, clearly. She was starting to buy into their theories and that was dangerous at best, horrifying at worst.

“You have to?” Fish prompted, his thumbs working away at his phone again.

“Nothing,” she said, her back straightening and her tone hard and decisive.

She knew who she was and she always had. She wasn’t about to forget it now.

“Okay,” she said, her voice demanding the attention of all in the room, including Hiksti who cocked his head in interest, “We’ll take him to our place. And Fish, you’re coming with us.”

Fishlegs looked at her over his glasses, a small frown on his lips. “Okay,” he said slowly.

“I need a doctor there. I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said.

She was laying it on thick but she absolutely needed him to come with them. She didn’t like the idea of having a stranger in her home without some…protection. Fishlegs seemed to straighten at her words, preening under the compliment.

“Well, when you put it like that,” he said, falsely modest.

Snotlout snorted. “See? I told you it would be fine with Fish.”

“You did,” Astrid agreed.

She needed to stay on Snotlout’s good side, too. He grinned at her and Astrid could see what Ruff meant when she said he was ‘almost too pretty’. He had his moments. She turned her attention to Hiksti, her eyes narrowing at his obliterated replacement foot.

“Now, how do we get him to the car?”

All three of them stared at his foot – or lack thereof. There used to be a set of crutches in the office, but Gustav had taken them when he sprained his ankle during a weekend dance demonstration two months ago and never returned them. Maybe if all three of them put in the effort, they could carry him, though Snotlout’s height difference might be a problem with that plan. They could maybe put him back on the stretcher, if he stayed very still.

Hiksti blinked at them and then followed their gaze to his foot.

“Ah!” he said, angling his leg for a better look.

He said something almost cheerfully, like having a completely exploded metal foot was a normal part of his life. Astrid tried to push out the intrusive thought that maybe it _was_ , if he was in fact a time-traveling Viking. Maybe having his metal prosthetic blown to pieces was a regular part of his day. She closed her eyes and shook her head again. She really needed to _stop_ this.

Fish and Snot gasped beside her and Astrid’s eyes opened to see that Hiksti had removed his replacement foot and laid it in his lap. He was attacking it with the long metal thing he’d taken back from Fishlegs earlier, poking and prodding and twisting at something inside the decimated metal until there was a bright ping and another clearly molded piece of metal swung out from inside the mangled metal. Astrid blinked, watching as Hiksti reattached his foot, now with a stable, flat piece in place of the battered metal they’d found him with.

“Well,” Fishlegs said, “That settles that.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, historical, linguistic, and quantum physics details remain dubious. :D

Astrid smells so good.

I know, I know, there are bigger things for me to be concerned about right now, like maybe the fact I’m in Valhalla, which obviously means I’m dead, but…Astrid smells so good. Like a field of wildflowers in spring, before the yaks get at them. And she looks so soft. She’s always been beautiful, but right now she looks like a Valkyrie sent to bring me to Valhalla. Considering that I’m now in Valhalla, maybe she is a Valkyrie (although I distinctly remember falling quite painfully through a roof).

I know what I sound like, but honestly? I don’t care. I haven’t seen Astrid in six years and when I last saw her, she was harder and smaller and angrier, so forgive me if I want to revel in the glory that is Astrid in Valhalla – older, softer, and breathtaking. And she smells _so_ good.

This _is_ Valhalla. There’s no other explanation for the fact that my friends are here, looking so healthy and alive. Snotlout seems to have had a personality transplant (though not a brain transplant – still a little on the dumb side). Fishlegs seems to be some sort of…healer? Not really what he’d been going for in life, but hey, it seems to suit him. I do wish he’d stop touching me so much (and that Astrid would touch me more). It’s not like I haven’t fallen from great heights and lived to tell the tale before; it’s not like they don’t know this about me.

Or maybe they don’t. Maybe you forget your life once you make it to Valhalla, but if that’s the case, why do I remember? Earlier today, as the sun was setting over Berk on fire, I was alive. Now I’m here, with my friends. They’re all dead, so it stands to reason that I am, too. I would have thought that getting into Valhalla would hurt less, but what do I know? I’m here now, may as well make the best of a bad situation, right?

I can feel Astrid’s eyes on me. Yep, she’s watching me. It’s a frown I recognize – one that tells me she’s on the cusp of a decision. Her eyebrows are lowered, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, her eyes sharply focused. On me. I appear to be at the crux of her decision. I’m okay with this. This works for me. I really, _really_ don’t mind. As I press the cold…thing into the side of my face, I watch her say something to Snotlout in their strange language that sounds like an order. She doesn’t bark it like she would have in the past; she says it simply and directly, her voice even and authoritative in a way that makes my heart pound painfully in my bruised chest. I’ve missed her. I’ve missed all of them.

Snotlout replies with a grin and wink and I smile in spite of myself. It’s nice to see that some things never change, that even in death Snot is still a bit of an idiot. Astrid’s responding eyeroll is comforting in way it probably shouldn’t be, just like Fishlegs’ sigh and tired tone somehow is a balm to the glaring fact that we’re all very dead. They can’t understand me and I can’t understand them, so there’s really no point in me telling them, but I hear myself doing it anyway.

“I’m so glad to see you,” I murmur, drawing Astrid’s attention.

She frowns at me, her eyes locked on my face as she steps toward me again. I realize that whatever she’s saying now, it’s not to me. Fishlegs responds and turns around, digging through his bag with single-minded intent, leaving Astrid to study my eyes like she’s searching for something inside me. Maybe she is. I hope she finds it, especially if that means I can stay.

How does that work? Can I get thrown out of Valhalla? I hope not. I only just got here and my head hurts a lot. I wouldn’t mind a nap. You know, I would have thought there’d be no pain in Valhalla, but maybe it’s all part of the preparation for Ragnarök. Maybe you have to toughen up before the final battle. I mean, clearly the stories don’t tell you everything given no one mentioned these little captured stars they have for lights, or the fact that people apparently age in Valhalla. No one said anything about a language barrier, or the weird little glowing box that Snotlout has that can _almost_ speak Norse even if no one else can. Maybe that’s standard issue once I get settled.

You know what? It doesn’t matter. The point is, I’m here and I’m still breathing…which is weird, but whatever. I’m here and so are at least some of my friends. I hope the twins weren’t so rotten that they didn’t make it to Valhalla. Even if their jokes were a little…much at times, at least they were brave and died with honour. That should have been enough. I hope. I really hope. I miss Ruffnut. If you’d told me five or six years ago that I’d so much as have that thought, I would have laughed in your face. But there it is – I miss Ruffnut Thorston. She was the one who left me last; she was the closest friend I had outside of Toothless. I hope she’s around here somewhere, I can always count on Ruff to liven up a bad situation. You know, like my untimely death? 

You know, the Astrid-as-a-Valykrie theory is really gaining some credibility with the way she’s glowing, all bright and hazy. Come to think of it, everything is a little bright and hazy. That can’t be good. This has happened before, the time I fell through the Thorston roof – see? Falling through roofs is a thing I do. I’ll just squeeze my eyes shut. I think that worked before.

When I open my eyes, both Astrid and Fishlegs are hovering too close to my face, the hazy glow somehow more intense with their closeness.  For some reason, the whole situation makes me want to laugh. Fishlegs has always been a hoverer, but Astrid? Astrid Hofferson hovering with concern in her eyes, hovering so close that I can see the faded freckles on her nose? That’s just _funny_.

The laugh bubbles from my lips and they share a look of concern, all furrowed brows and wide eyes. It only makes me laugh harder. When I started out this day, I was faced with an unwinnable battle. My main focus was to evacuate Berk, to save who I could. I think I was at least a little successful and I like to think that the fact that Toothless isn’t lingering nearby means he made it out alive. He got away. So now I know that the villagers made it to the forest, my best friend got away unscathed, and I made it to Valhalla to be reunited with my friends. Sure, none of this is perfect, I’m dead after all, but I made it and all they can do is look at me like I’m at death’s door. I am! Literally! I’m at death’s door! And it’s kind of great.

Fishlegs shakes his head at me and mutters something at Astrid before shoving his hand at me, a small, green thing resting starkly against the pale skin of his palm. I stop laughing as I try to focus on the oblong, translucent…rock? Gem? I have no idea what it is or why he’s giving it to me, I hope my face tells him that. Astrid sighs, annoyed and grabs it out of his hand, grumbling at him in a way that’s all too familiar. She holds it out to me between her finger and her thumb, making sure she has my attention before miming putting it in her mouth and swallowing it.

She wants me to eat a rock.

You know what, why not? She’s been in Valhalla a lot longer than I have and clearly has a handle on whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing here. Things can’t really get any worse from eating a rock, I’m already dead. When I take it from her hand, she smiles, delighted, and nods at me encouragingly. I mean, if it’s going to make her so happy, why wouldn’t I eat a tiny, little, green rock?

It’s smooth on my tongue and a little bit sweet. I swallow it easily despite Fishlegs running into the side of the table and splashing water on my leg as he shoves a cup of it in my face. A clear cup. How novel. Valhalla really is a place of wonders. Where did that water even come from? I frown at him and glance at Astrid, shaking my head at her slowly. She almost laughs and the smile on her face is worth swallowing a thousand little green rocks.

“You’re so pretty,” I tell her, feeling the blood rush to my face before I have the chance to remind myself that she can’t understand me.

Still, she smiles, just barely. Almost shyly. It reminds me of the summer after I lost my leg, of a late summer evening when her fingers curled around mine and we kissed under a tree as a storm rolled in, the patter of raindrops against broad leaves above us the only sound in the forest.

Of something we almost had.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I whisper even though I shouldn’t.

I know it doesn’t matter, that she can’t understand a word I’m saying, but it feels important right now, after swallowing that green rock. I feels important to say the things I never got the chance to in life.

Maybe I should kiss her.

That’s a great idea, actually. The best one I’ve ever had. We don’t need to talk for me to tell her all the things I should have said before. I could kiss her right here, right now, and maybe that would be enough to let her know that I’m sorry. Not just for not saying how I felt when I had the chance, but for failing her and all of Berk. For losing even when there was no other option. Maybe…maybe we can have another chance here in Valhalla and I can make everything right.

When I lean forward, it seems like she does, too. Her eyes dart down to my lips and I smile. See? She gets it. We don’t need to talk. I’m sure it’ll come later, when I learn her Valhalla language. I can tell her all about what she missed on Berk, and she can tell me what I missed here. We have all the time in the world to talk. Or at least until Ragnarök. All we have to do now is…lean forward.

A loud, high pitched noise like a Terror being squeezed too hard comes from somewhere outside and startles Astrid. She draws in a sharp breath and jumps backwards, her eyes wide and alert.

I guess that’s a no on the kissing.

“Snotlout,” Fishlegs says, giving Astrid a pointed look.

I forgot he was here, and it seems from the blush on Astrid’s cheeks, so did she. I should probably contain my excitement, but _Astrid_ and I almost kissed. Not bad for my first day of being dead. Not bad at all, if I do say so myself. Astrid backs away from me some more, as though the distance between us is the only thing stopping the inevitable kiss. Or maybe she realizes it’s a bad idea. Or maybe there’s some rule about kissing the newly dead. Or…or maybe she’s that upset with me, the kind of upset that time and death doesn’t remove. I don’t know. It’s getting hard to think and I really want to sleep. I feel like things will make more sense when I wake up. Things always make more sense in the morning.

Astrid gestures to me and says something to Fishlegs. He snorts in return, derisive and uncooperative. Astrid rolls her eyes at the ceiling in a way I’ve seen her do so many times before when someone is too stupid for words. It’s like nothing has changed at all.

It’s a good thing I can read her like this. It really helps with this lack of communication thing we have going on. When her eyes come back down, she locks them on me. Her blush is gone and her eyes are set with grim determination as she stomps across the space between us. She stops in front of me, her eyes sliding down to my leg, or lack thereof. She looks up into my face again and says something that I’m meant to understand, apparently. I absolutely do not understand, but if I had to guess I think she might want me to stand up? Maybe? She keeps gesturing away from the table by sweeping her arm so she’s either doing some weird Valhalla dance I haven’t learned yet, or she wants me to stand up. I’ll take my chances with standing, even though I don’t know if my backup peg leg is going to be able to take my weight.

Astrid rushes to my side like I can’t handle a little thing like _standing up_ , pausing only when our eyes meet. I can’t help but smile when I look at her worried, sheepish expression. It’s nice, you know, to have Astrid care so much about my well-being, but it’s starting to make me feel a little nervous, like there’s something she’s not telling me. Ha, no, wait. I mean, there’s a lot she’s not telling me because she can’t, but something worse. Something bad. My smile fades away as I take in the tightness around her eyes and the way she keeps gnawing her lip. I’ve seen her look like this before, after I lost my leg. _Right after_ I lost my leg, when it was clear she wasn’t sure I was going to make it. She _is_ worried. I want to tell her not to bother, we’re dead, what else can possibly go wrong? Instead, I reach out and tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, which makes her blink, her lips parting just slightly. Charmingly disarmed in a way she rarely ever shows.

“I’m okay,” I say.

She releases a breath that seems to deflate the tension in her shoulders and I wonder if she understood me this time. When she follows it up by saying something I don’t understand, I’m the one to sigh and deflate. I slide from the table, putting most of my weight on my right leg and pressing the backup leg into the ground gently to see if it will hold. Most of the main part of the leg was blasted away by the sentry dragons; I’ll need to make a new one. I wonder where the nearest forge is, I’ll be pretty grounded without a new leg. I guess I’m pretty grounded without a dragon, but one thing at a time. I’d rather him not be here if that means he’s safe back in the land of the living.

The backup leg wobbles a bit as I take a step and Astrid is right there, looping my arm around her shoulder and wrapping hers around my waist. She looks up at me with resolve and I grin down at her. She used to do this way back when I first lost my leg, only back then she was taller than me and had to hunch to take my weight. Gods, I missed her so much. And she still smells so good.

Every bruise, every torn muscle, every injury on my body screams a little as I start to move. I’ve been sitting too long. Everyone knows you can’t just sit around after falling through a roof. Still, it’s not as bad as I would expect. Maybe that little green rock was some sort of Valhalla magic that makes pain go away. Maybe it’s Astrid who makes the pain go away. She smiles up at me and nods her head toward the doorway. I guess we’re leaving. I take another step forward and glance down at Astrid for confirmation that we are, in fact, leaving. Her smile widens and she nods; I grin back automatically. One thing is for sure: I’ll go wherever she goes. I’ll do whatever she asks of me. I’m not losing her again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, the accuracy of literally everything is dubious. Accept that I have no intention of being historically, archeologically, linguistically or otherwise accurate in any way.

This was a mistake. The last thing Astrid should have done after nearly _kissing_ a complete stranger who was either a cosplaying Icelandic skydiver or a time-displaced Viking chief, was volunteer herself to be his human crutch. She should have put space between them. She should have made Fish do it. But no, there she was, pressed into his side, the heat of his body seeping through the shitty Hairy Hooligans t-shirt that was two sizes too small, his taut, well-developed muscles flexing under her palm every time he took an awkward step. The scent of him filled her nose, wood smoke and the sea and a whiff of wilderness. Every time she breathed, she was reminded of the inexplicable sense of familiarity she felt when she looked into his grassy green eyes.

This was all a terrible, very poorly conceived _error_.

Maybe it was a bad dream. Maybe she still had a chance to wake up in her nice, warm bed and exclaim ‘what a weird dream!’ before getting dressed, and going to work to find the Gunderson house unscathed. Maybe she wouldn’t find a broken-back _seax_ next to the sink. Maybe she—

Astrid froze. “Oh!”

Hiksti glanced down at her and Astrid did her level best not to look up at him so as not to get lost in his eyes. She had problems. So many problems. There was no sense in making them worse by _acknowledging_ them. She looked over her shoulder at Fishlegs who was doing his very best impression of a deer in headlights.

“Come here for a sec,” she said.

Fishlegs glanced at Hiksti and shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Astrid sighed. “Just for a minute. Please. I have to do something.”

Fish frowned at her. “What do you have to do?”

“Leave a note for the morning staff and Dr. Andersson,” she said, leaving off how she also wanted to grab the _seax_ and other…accoutrements.

Fish’s frown deepened and he raised an eyebrow as he looked at her over the top of his glasses. He didn’t believe her for a second.

“Astrid.”

“Fishlegs. I’ll just be a minute.”

“Astrid, are you going to come back with a bag of Viking accessories?”

Astrid scowled at him. “I can’t just _leave_ them here.”

Fishlegs sighed loudly, but ultimately trudged over to where she was standing with Hiksti. He put his bag down with excessive gentleness and looked from Astrid to Hiksti and back again, sighing once more, his shoulders slumping with his exhale. Astrid flashed him a bright smile and disentangled herself from Hiksti, stepping out from under his arm and thankfully away from the tempting cut of his hips. Her smile fell abruptly when she finally looked at Hiksti’s face. The purpling bruise stood out starkly against his pale skin, a sharp contrast to his verdant eyes, but worse than that was the look of confused betrayal she saw there, like she was abandoning him to a fate worse than death.

“I’ll be right back,” she told him even though he couldn’t understand her, “Just a minute, I promise.”

Fishlegs stepped into place under Hiksti’s arm and sighed. “Just hurry up. The patient should be _resting_.”

Astrid nodded even though Fish wasn’t looking and turned on her heel, breaking into a jog through the darkened hallways of the main pavilion. Even though his very presence was driving her actions, Astrid tried not to think about Hiksti. She tried to concentrate on the tasks at hand and push aside her feelings. She shouldn’t _have_ any feelings other than the annoyance of being inconvenienced on a night she’d planned out so meticulously, and yet there she was, having other, less logical _feelings_.

She stalked through the office, sitting down in the torn office chair at her desk, still trying (and failing) not to think. The drawer screamed in protest as she yanked it open, its rusty inner workings in dire need of lubrication. As she rummaged around in the drawer for a piece of paper on which to scrawl her hasty explanations, her traitorous brain felt it was time to remind her of her actions.

She’d almost kissed him. She’d almost _kissed_ a complete stranger who was probably a weirdo. There was nothing rational or reasonable about that moment when she’d found herself leaning in toward him except that it had felt _right_ in a strange way. Like kissing Hiksti would magically make all the pieces of her life fit together with ease, like the press of their lips was something she’d been waiting for her whole life. Longer than her whole life. Like he was a piece of her.

The faint, distant honk of a car horn dragged her back into the present rather violently and she wrenched her hand away from her lips. She hadn’t even realized it had snaked its way up there like a devious serpent from Hell. Astrid drew in a hard, sharp breath and jammed her hand back into the drawer with more fervour.

“Focus, Hofferson. Focus. You absolutely _cannot_ fall for a skydiving weirdo,” she muttered as she yanked a piece of paper out of the drawer and jammed it shut, the screech and clatter of metal on metal cutting through the empty room, “I absolutely _forbid_ it.”

She wrote a hasty note to the morning manager explaining that _something_ had fallen through the roof of Building 14 at _some point_ in the night and left detailed instructions on how to tarp the roof and catalogue the damage inside the building. She neglected to mention Icelandic skydivers or time traveling chieftains. She left a similar note, sans instructions, for Dr. Andersson, promising to call in the morning to explain further. It was only when Astrid was leaving the note on Dr. Andersson’s desk that she wondered if there was any blood in the Gunderson house. That would be more difficult to explain. Maybe she could pass it off as an animal fight? She’d worry about it in the morning (if Hiksti didn’t turn out to be a murderous ex of Snot’s that he’d somehow forgotten – she wouldn’t put it past him).

Astrid paused for a minute, chewing on her bottom lip as she thought. She needed something to collect Hiksti’s things into, particularly that _seax_. There was no way she was leaving it here. As much as she adored the BVV staff, she could pretty much count on their complete lack of discretion. They’d take one look at the _seax_ and assume it was a misplaced prop. Once it was in the costume rotation, Astrid would have a hell of a time finding it again and who even knew what state it would be in. The last thing she needed was for a potential real-time artifact to get banged up by a part-timer.

Real-time artifact. There she went again. Just who did she think Hiksti was, really? Did she _actually_ think that he was Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third? Did she really _believe_ in time travel?

Before she let herself even consider reading the Thorston twins’ paper on Temporal Displacement Nodules in Berk, Astrid redirected herself. She needed to grab the _seax_ and get out of here. She needed to grab all of Hiksti’s things. If Dr. Andersson saw them, Astrid would have to explain why she hadn’t called the police or filled out an incident report. She’d have to explain Hiksti and right now, there was no explaining him. At least not until she read the twins’ paper. (Was she _actually_ considering believing the twins and their wild conjectures? Really? Is that who she’d become in the span of a couple of hours?)

Her eyes fell upon her gym bag under her desk. It was neon pink and had the words “after this we’re getting tacos” scrawled across the side of it. Snotlout had given it to her for her birthday last year because he found it deeply hilarious. Astrid had found it mildly amusing for about a week, until the gym rats started making lewd taco jokes and she’d been forced punch one in the nose. Now she had to work out on the other side of town in an all-women studio. But none of this was relevant – or maybe all of it was, given she wanted to smuggle a large, potentially authentic-if-not-real _seax_ and some suspect “Viking” armour out of the BVV in it. Did it count as stealing if it never belonged there to begin with? Or did it belong there because it belonged to the (potentially time-displaced) chief of Berk?

Astrid shook her head at herself and dumped the contents of her gym bag into the bottom drawer of her desk before jogging back to the staff room. She dropped the bag on the table and stuffed the various knives and Hiksti’s jacket thingy into it, then she turned, her eyes falling on the _seax_. It was a beautiful thing, still familiar in a way it had no business being. It must be a replica; that must be why she knew it. She had to have seen it before, maybe in a text book or at a museum. Maybe in her studies, or in the glimpses she’d gotten of Dr. Andersson’s notes.

Every step Astrid took toward the counter made her heart pound a little harder, her eyes fixed on the gleaming blade. The design told a story that the runes would punctuate and she wanted nothing more than to sit down and figure out what it all meant. She slid one hand under the handle, the other gently cradling the flat of the blade as she lifted it. The blade was balanced, the weight of it evenly distributed in a way she had to admire. Whoever had made it was a true craftsman. Turning carefully, her eyes still on that fascinating, shining blade, Astrid slipped it into her gym bag, silently hoping that it wasn’t sharp enough to cut through the fabric. Then she zipped up the bag and made a quick pass at tidying the lunchroom table of any evidence of their make-shift first aid station.

Astrid strode back through the halls with the confidence of a person who knew the place very well. She shut off lights as she went, closing doors where they needed to be closed, until she was back in the main entranceway, where she’d left Fish and Hiksti. The foyer was empty, eerily lit by emergency exit lighting and the faint, distant glow of the moon seeping through the front door. No Fishlegs, no Hiksti. Astrid had a moment of absolute panic when she wondered if she had made all of this up, if Hiksti was part of her imagination and nothing more. While part of her was deeply relieved not to have to deal with a skydiving Icelandic cosplayer, another part of her was pained at the thought of missing out on the Viking chief. The one who made her heart beat too fast. The one she almost kissed.

Thankfully, Snotlout was impatient and really laid on the horn. At least Astrid knew she would never make up anyone as obnoxious as Snot. He was definitely real. The weight of the gym bag bearing all of Hiksti’s belongings pulled at her shoulder and Astrid felt justifiably reassured to follow her logic, even if it was a bit spotty tonight.

Astrid threw her shoulders back and raised her chin up, building up the appearance of confidence that always got her through life. Fake it ‘til you make it, that’s what her Uncle Finn used to say and he was almost never wrong. (Except that one time. The time he almost brought total disgrace upon the Hofferson name, but nobody talked about that anymore.) She stepped outside, squinting her eyes against the bright glow of the headlights. It was hard to tell in the dark, but it looked like there was some sort of…altercation happening by the back door of the car.

“Everything okay?” she called.

She could practically hear Fishlegs’ sigh from where she was standing. “Thank god. Astrid is here. He only listens to her.”

“Hurry up, Astrid! Your cosplaying Viking won’t get in the car,” Snot called to her before turning back to Hiksti and crooning at him in gentle tones, “Hiksti, my dude, just get in the car. I take good care of her. You won’t find a more comfortable Civic in all of Berk.”

Astrid bit back a smile as she locked up the main pavilion’s door. When she got to the car, Hiksti gave her that lopsided, unreasonably attractive smile and she felt herself fluster instantly.

“Forbidden,” she muttered under her breath.

“What?” Snotlout asked, frowning at her and gently pushing at Hiksti.

“Leave him alone and open the trunk.”

“You’re putting him in the _trunk_? Astrid, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Astrid rolled her eyes and gave her gym bag a shake. “I want to put this in the trunk.”

 “You’re going to the gym?” Snot asked, his frown growing, “At a time like this?”

“Shotgun,” Fishlegs said without looking up from his phone.

Astrid glared at him. “Real mature, Fish.”

He looked up, over the tops of his glasses. “Remember, you called—”

“Yeah, yeah. Sit in the front then,” Astrid grumbled, walking to the trunk of the car.

She pushed Snot’s gym bag aside and gently put her own bag down. She was about to close the trunk, but Snot appeared and grabbed the edge of it before she could slam it down. He glared at her, shaking his head.

“Gently, Astrid. Hookfang is a national treasure.”

She didn’t bother responding, at least not with words. If he couldn’t read her face by now, there was no helping him. Astrid took a moment, hanging back, her eyes on Hiksti. The too small t-shirt was in sharp, jarring contrast to his stained and scuffed leather pants and mangled metal leg. Now that no one was trying to shove him into the back seat, he was leaning down and sticking his head in the car, his hand resting on the edge of the door, scars and dried blood evident in the bright moonlight. Astrid looked up, wondering if it was a full moon. She didn’t keep track of that sort of thing, but if she asked Ruffnut, she’d probably find out that Mercury was in retrograde and the stars were maligned or something.

Astrid’s gaze fell back on Hiksti and as though he felt her watching him, he looked up at her, the tiniest of hopeful smiles playing at his lips. Astrid sighed. Dealing with handsome strangers ( _No, Astrid! Forbidden!)_ who literally fell out of nowhere or no…when? (Was she really going to entertain this nonsense still?) was the last thing on her agenda. In fact, it was never on her agenda. It wasn’t something she had time for, and yet there she was, taking him home with her.

For science, obviously. Or at least for the potential archeological benefits. Or…she was losing it, clearly.

During the time Astrid was standing there gazing at Hiksti like he was a grand find in an archeological dig, both Fishlegs and Snotlout had climbed into the car. The too-loud sound of the local sports highlights came blasting through Snot’s jacked up speakers and Hiksti took a surprised step backwards, stumbling on his unstable backup leg. Without thinking, Astrid rushed to his side. Again. She steadied him with an arm around his waist and he grinned down at her, green eyes and uneven pupils gleaming. Astrid looked away, a sudden burst of irritation washing over her. It wasn’t like her to be smitten, not with anyone.

“Snot, turn that down. You have a person with a concussion here,” she growled.

“She’s right,” Fishlegs agreed.

“Oh, right. My bad,” Snot replied jovially, turning down the sound but not turning it off.

Astrid sighed. Of course he couldn’t miss the sports highlights. Heaven forbid he use the internet to check up on things in silence. Hiksti shifted his weight and Astrid glanced up at him, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the tiredness that seemed to pull at his whole body.

“Get in,” she said, gesturing toward the backseat of the car.

Hiksti frowned and gave her a dubious look. Astrid sighed again and disentangled herself from him, climbing into the backseat and sliding over to the passenger side. Once she was settled, she patted the seat beside her.

“Come on. You just have to sit.”

Hiksti leaned over again, sticking his head in the backseat and looking around. He seemed to deem it safe enough to take a seat and climbed in next to her, leaving the door open. He turned in his seat, taking in the darkened interior of the car like he’d never seen one before. _Because he hasn’t_ , a little voice in Astrid’s head insisted. She ignored it and reached across him to yank the door shut. He moved just as she yanked on the door, her hand slipping as she lost her balance, coming precariously close to falling into his lap.

“Shit,” she muttered.

“Smooth, Astrid. Smooth,” Snotlout snorted.

“Shut up,” she growled as she hastily retreated to her side of the car.

She expected Hiksti to be grinning, or pleased with himself, but instead she found him wide-eyed and staring, his lips slightly parted. He swallowed heavily and Astrid was sure if there was more light, she’d see a blush on his face. Unless he had a fever. Oh god, did he have a fever? Astrid shoved her hand out and pressed it against his forehead. He stiffened under her hand, his eyes even wider.

“What are you doing?” Fishlegs asked, shifting in his seat.

“I think he has a fever.”

“He doesn’t.”

“But—“

“One of us is a doctor—”

“Almost a doctor,” Snot interjected.

“And one of us is a weirdo obsessed with Viking paraphernalia,” Fishlegs continued as though Snotlout hadn’t spoken at all.

Astrid glanced at him, her eyebrows low and determined, the irritation she felt building coming to life in a combination of embarrassment and aggravation. She didn’t bother defending herself. He was right – she was a weirdo. And so was Hiksti for all she knew.

“Put on your seatbelt,” she muttered, sliding back into her seat and yanking her own on angrily.

“You should consider activating the child locks,” Fishlegs said, twisting back in his seat, his attention back on his phone.

Astrid glowered at the back of his head before glancing at Hiksti who was pulling and releasing his seatbelt in wonder.

“Astrid, help him,” Snotlout said, his eyes on her through the rearview mirror.

Astrid huffed and reached over, grabbing the seatbelt from Hiksti’s hand and pulling it across his hips. He was sitting on the buckle because of course he was. Astrid sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes skimming up his torso (trying not to get lost on his apparent abs) to his face.

“You’re sitting on it,” she said, wincing.

Hiksti blinked at her. She wracked her brain, trying to remember any Old Norse she’d ever learned and failing.

“Snot, can you use your app to tell him he’s sitting on it?” she asked.

“Sure thing, babe.”

“Ugh. Just do it.”

Snotlout typed something into his phone and twisted around, shoving the speaker toward the back. The unfamiliar words filled the car and for a minute, nothing happened. Hiksti blinked at the phone in confusion and Snot clicked on the app again, the Icelandic gibberish read out once more. Then Hiksti glanced down and around himself, shifting just enough to uncover the buckle in his confusion. Astrid saw her opportunity and took it, jamming the seatbelt into the buckle before he shifted back. Hiksti’s eyes widened and he immediately reached for the button on the seatbelt.

“No!” Astrid said, grabbing his hand and holding it.

He looked at her, eyes wide but sharp. His gaze fell to their hands and a crooked grin stretched across his face. Astrid yanked her hand back and pressed herself into the door.

“Don’t touch it,” she warned. “You might want to take Fish’s advice, Snot. Turn on the child locks.”

Fishlegs twisted in his seat, took one look at Hiksti and nodded, turning back to his phone. “She’s right. You don’t want to lose him on the highway.”

“Come on, guys. I’m sure they have cars in Iceland. Helga told me she had a Lamborghini.”

“She might have been lying to you. Or your app really does suck,” Astrid grumbled uncharitably.

Astrid watched as Hiksti pressed the lock and window buttons, his eyes narrowing as the window went up and down as though he was trying to figure it out. It was getting harder to believe that he was Icelandic and easier to believe that he was a Viking chief from hundreds of years ago, which was a sure sign that Astrid needed to go to bed. Or get a lobotomy. One of those.

“Let’s just go home,” she said, leaning heavily into her seat, her eyes still on Hiksti as he peered out the window.

Things would make sense in the morning, she was sure of it, even if Mercury was in retrograde…or whatever.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, everything is dubious, etc etc etc. Don't @ me about accuracy of literally anything.
> 
> Sorry this took so long - I have been dealing with a lot of...stuff irl and writing has been...hard. So, here's hoping this is moderately coherent for y'all. (Note: coherency is also dubious, etc etc.)

Astrid bit back a curse as her phone pin-wheeled out of her hands, the beam of the flashlight bouncing off the walls, ceiling and floor before it landed with a soft thud on the threadbare carpet in front of her. Swallowing noisily, she hazarded a glance up toward the bed. Hiksti was lying facing her, his lips parted slightly, his face slack in sleep. The soft rise and fall of his chest reassured her that she hadn’t woken him, but she kept watching him anyway, mesmerized by the stranger sleeping in her bed. Her eyes traced the bruises and scrapes on his face, the scar on his chin, the smattering of freckles that covered his skin, and her heart thumped a little faster.

She liked to think of herself as practical, that she would never be swayed by the unknown. That facts and truths reigned supreme in her heart and mind. She liked to tell herself that her interest in Berk’s lesser known Viking history had everything to do with a love of anthropology and nothing to do with that society’s strange fixation on dragons, mythical beings that almost certainly didn’t exist. They _didn’t_ exist. Astrid _knew_ that. But…Vikings weren’t exactly the fanciful, storytelling type. Their gods were rooted in practicality; their way of life pragmatic and downright sensible, if anyone asked her.  And yet, the Berk Vikings had a detailed cataloguing of dragon types, from their food preferences to their unique skill sets, which read as downright scientific. They read like facts.

She went over the events of the night yet again in her head, from Hiksti’s impossible appearance at the BVV to his increasingly improbable origins of existence. As much as her rational brain insisted that people didn’t just fall out of the sky, especially not _through time_ , and definitely not in _Berk_ of all places, Astrid couldn’t help but linger on the probabilities that a long dead, presumably lost in battle Viking chief was wearing Tuffnut’s forgotten jogging pants and her own overstretched Berk U t-shirt while snuggled under the (extremely comfortable) second hand comforter, patterned with tiny axes, that she’d found at a yard sale when she was fifteen. A Viking chief from a society that believed in dragons.

Astrid’s eyes strayed to the window as though she half expected a dragon to be hovering outside and was almost disappointed to see only the familiar glow of the over-bright streetlights filtering through the thin curtains.

He could have fallen from a dragon. The thought came unbidden and was so ridiculous that Astrid found herself glaring at the sleeping man in her bed. She squeezed her eyes shut, the only defence she had against the delicious way the shadows danced along the sharp relief of Hiksti’s jawline, highlighting the litany of scars on his pale and otherwise soft-looking skin. Shaking her head at herself for what must have been the 500th time that night, she turned back to the work at hand. She couldn’t afford to be distracted at a time like this, not when she was potentially making an incredible discovery. The kind that gets you noticed in academic circles. The kind that gets you handed PhD funding. She didn’t have time to be fantasizing about dragon-riding Viking chiefs falling through time when the reality of the situation would likely come to light in the morning, when the news would talk of a missing skydiver from Iceland who was…oh, who knows…filming a movie or something otherwise disappointing.

Astrid carefully rested her phone against the stack of textbooks in front of her so that the beam of the flashlight provided just the right amount of light to see the etchings in the blade of the _seax_ lying in front of her. Licking her lips, she leaned in closer, greedily drinking in the runes before diving into her Elder Futhark textbook. She ignored the bite of the cheap carpet on her bare elbows as she flipped through the pages. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, a true discovery. Never mind where it had come from. Never mind that the possibility of it being genuine were basically nil. Never mind that she was so sleep deprived she couldn’t see straight anyway. Perfect time to be translating runes.

Like all parts of this wild night, Astrid had never intended to be awake at three in the morning translating runes off a suspiciously shiny but also potentially authentic sword, but there she was. At this point it could barely be worse than collecting an unconscious man who fell through the roof of the Gunderson house, putting him in Snotlout’s car, driving him across the city and bringing him into her apartment. Nor could it be any better than watching said man play with light switches and marvel at modern plumbing. Or look at her with those wide green eyes until exhaustion finally took over and his eyelids drooped as his head sunk into her pillow and his breathing eased into a steady rhythm.

Despite her better judgement, Astrid looked up at him again. He was a quiet sleeper, his breathing softer than it should be for a supposed Viking chief (or Icelandic skydiver). Maybe that was the concussion, though. The concussion was the reason Fishlegs was sleeping on her couch right now, decidedly not a soft breather at all judging by the echoing snores barely muffled by her closed bedroom door. He was supposed to be keeping an eye on the one-legged interloper, not her. _He_ was the almost doctor, after all. Instead he’d spent all night surfing eBay for a replacement leg for Hiksti, which would probably be moot in the morning anyway. It would serve Fish right to be stuck with an extra leg on his hands.

While she shouldn’t have been surprised at all in a world where people fall out of the sky on a Tuesday night, the idea that you could just buy a prosthetic limb in an online auction baffled her. Even so – a prosthetic leg had been purchased accordingly, her new Viking friend had been appropriately sponge bathed (above the waist!) and tucked into bed for the night with assurances from the so-called almost doctor that he would be fine overnight. Probably.

Astrid swallowed back a growl and pushed herself upright, scowling down at her books and the _seax_ on the floor. She blinked back the blurriness in her eyes and her scowl changed into a downright glower. This would be a task better suited for the morning, but she was irrationally worried that if she closed her eyes, she’d only be met with disappointment in the morning. That her Viking chief would be gone, that the _seax_ would be reduced to a stress-induced hallucination, and that she’d still have to go into work at eight.

Well, at least if she did have to work in the morning, she wouldn’t have to clean up the mess in the Gunderson house because there would be no mess to clean up.

Sighing, her eyes strayed _yet again_ to Hiksti. She didn’t want him to disappear. The thought was neither intrusive nor surprising, but she hated her sleep deprived brain for giving it up so willingly. For selling her out like that, even if it was only to herself. And she could tell herself that it had to do with the anthropological breakthroughs she would make, but she knew there was more to it than that. Even though her life had been going exactly to plan, even though she had nearly everything she’d ever wanted or needed, she knew something was missing. She was bored. She was lonely. She was looking for an adventure that modern day Berk couldn’t give her.

She didn’t stop herself when she reached out to brush a lock of hair across Hiksti’s forehead. She didn’t chide herself for wanting something she shouldn’t want. She didn’t know him, but she wanted to. Even if that was stupid and impossible and maybe even wrong. Even if he wasn’t what he seemed, whatever that meant. Because what did he seem? Did he seem like a cosplaying Icelandic skydiver, or did he seem like a time-displaced Viking chief? Did he seem like an elaborate hoax, or was he the real thing?

Did he seem like everything Astrid had ever wanted but never knew how to ask for? Or was she actually just losing her mind?

Maybe both. Probably both.

“Hofferson,” she muttered under her breath, “Get a grip.”

But she didn’t want a grip. She liked this grip-less reality at three in the morning, when anything seemed feasible and beautiful, rugged young men fell out of the sky and saved you from yourself. Was that what she was looking for? A white knight to save her from mediocrity? Astrid’s eyes ran over his wild auburn hair and the freckles on his nose, sliding down to his chest where she knew a scar lay, red and angry. The brand of a tyrant. He’d faced Drago Bludvist and lived to tell the tale. If he was Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, then he’d also ridden dragons according to Berk’s own legends. Astrid huffed, a smile tugging at her lips. Despite all that, he seemed a bit unassuming, really. It would really make perfect sense that the guy she found interesting was of the unassuming, heroic dragon rider type. Nothing too flashy or anything. Just impossible.

The screen of Astrid’s phone lit up, drawing her attention away from Hiksti (which was probably for the best). It was a text from Ruffnut. A text that made her frown.

_Happy Loki Day Hoff!!!!! Hope you loved your first prank. I packed it with care._

Astrid narrowed her eyes at her phone before glancing at Hiksti again, her heart pounding in her chest and then dropping suddenly into her stomach. She was frozen in place for a minute or two, paralyzed by the sudden implication of that text. She remembered with perfect clarity how she’d easily recognized and subsequently mocked Ruffnut’s poorly thought out prank the year before. How she’d laughed while her friend seethed. How she’d taunted while Ruffnut glared. Astrid had always been a poor winner. She’d never quite known when to stop rubbing it in. And when the prank had been rudimentary and poorly delivered, Astrid had relished in her victory, in her inability to be tricked.

There was a stranger in her bed. A stranger who fell out of the sky in the Berk Viking Village. A stranger who represented everything she hadn’t even realized she wanted, maybe even needed. The thought had already crossed her mind that he could be an actor and maybe she wasn’t so far from the mark. Maybe she was being had in the most elaborate Loki Day prank Ruffnut had ever conceived, specially designed to push every single one of Astrid’s buttons. Realistic enough to kill her gloating victory dance.

Astrid tore her eyes away from Hiksti, her sleep-deprived brain overwhelmed by the crushing grief for what might have been. Except it never could have been because Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third had been dead for hundreds of years, dragons didn’t exist, and Ruffnut’s need for vengeance knew no boundaries (which Astrid had great respect for, really). Swallowing back the unexpected knot in her throat, an indicator of unshed and unwanted tears for an impossible thing, Astrid typed back:

_Bravo, Ruff. You got me._

Sighing, Astrid rolled over, away from the _seax_ , her arms spread wide, eyes fixed on the crack in the stucco ceiling. So that’s what this had all been, an elaborate, well-played hoax. When the bitter tang of disappointment wore off, Astrid was certain she would applaud Ruff’s dedication to the craft, but right now she was having trouble seeing the merits. The darkened room lit up as the screen of her phone brightened, an indication of a new text. Astrid pulled the phone in and read Ruff’s text.

_Really? Yassssss. I knew it would work._

Astrid pushed her warring feelings out of her head long enough to attempt a joke.

_I really admire your dedication this year. I had no idea I had a thing for redheads._

She waited in the darkness, Fishlegs’ snores rising in a crescendo that ended in a series of surprised snorts and then silence, however briefly, before the snores started all over again. She could see that Ruffnut was typing something back and her whole body seized with adrenaline and the frozen chill of anticipation.

_What? Pretty sure I ordered a blonde, but okay._

Astrid all but gasped as the full weight of her disappointment settled in. She looked at Hiksti, beautiful, unlikely Hiksti, who was probably an actor named Chuck who had learned Icelandic for a nominal fee, and released her feelings for him.

Except she didn’t. Except she still harboured this intense yearning for something imaginary. Her phone lit up again.

_No, you know what? Screw Amazon, man. They screwed up the order. It was definitely a blonde. That ruins everything._

Astrid frowned. She didn’t know you could order actors on Amazon, but then again she hadn’t been aware that you could order prosthetic limbs on eBay, so what did she know?

_You ordered him from Amazon?_

Another pause: _Wait. Him? They screwed that up, too? I’m asking for my money back._

Astrid’s frown deepened. _You ordered a woman?_

_I thought she kind of looked like you._

_What?_

_I know, I know. It’s a stretch._

Astrid glanced up at Hiksti again, hope rising in her chest like a dragon taking flight for the first time in a thousand years.

_Let me get this straight: you ordered an actress who looked like me from Amazon?_

Astrid watched the three dots cycle over and over as Ruffnut typed, her heart once again pounding, this time with hope.

_Hoff, what the hell are you talking about? You can’t order people off Amazon. Did Tuffnut one up me? Did he? That little shit. This was MY year. Uggggh. It’s not fair._

Astrid knew without question that Tuffnut couldn’t be bothered with a prank this elaborate. He favoured small, obnoxious things that he could witness. If he had sent someone through the roof of the Gunderson house, he would have jumped out of the bushes sniggering, immediately. Or better yet, he would have thrown himself through the Gunderson roof. He’d like the pain and the drama of it all. Astrid started typing before she could stop herself. Later, she would probably blame it on the fact that it was 3AM and she was likely suffering from some sort of impaired judgement from lack of sleep, but she typed it out anyway.

_Ruffnut, did you or did you not send a man through the roof of a building at the BVV?_

An infinitesimal pause, and then: _WHAT? TUFF DID THAT?_

_No. Of course not. That’s too elaborate for him._

_I don’t know. I wouldn’t put falling through a roof past him._

_Neither would I, but it wasn’t him._

_Wait. Wait a damn minute. Are you telling me a MAN fell through the ROOF at the BVV?_

_I can neither confirm nor deny until I know if you’re the responsible party, Ruffnut._

A long pause. _I wish. But you have to tell me more, Hoff._

Astrid spread her arms out again, her eyes on the ceiling, and laughed. The smile on her face felt foreign and _wonderful_. The relief that spread through her melted her anxious, knotted muscles. The shitty carpet had never felt so good beneath her back. Hiksti wasn’t Ruffnut’s prank. That didn’t mean that he wasn’t still some other explainable oddity, but it did mean that she didn’t have to give him up just yet. The room glowed with the continual onslaught of texts from Ruffnut, probably demanding to know more. Astrid didn’t read them as she rolled onto her side, her eyes fixed on Hiksti as he shifted in his sleep, his brow furrowing and relaxing as he dreamed. Her smile grew wider and then she typed one more message to Ruff.

_I’ll explain tomorrow. Come over in the morning and bring a copy of your paper._

_My paper? The one on temporal displacement nodules? Are you finally in?_

The reflected light on the blade of the _seax_ caught Astrid’s eye and she bit her lip in thought. Was she actually willing to believe the twins after all this time? Was she going to entertain the idea that time travel was real, that there was, in fact, a “nodule” in Berk that would allow slips in time? Astrid’s thumbs worked rapidly against the screen.

_Yeah. Sure. I’m in._

Because in a world where people fall out of the sky on a Tuesday night, the idea of temporal nodules over Berk was almost normal.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical accuracy is dubious; linguistics are dubious; quantum physics are dubious; dreams are dubious; dubious things are dubious; etc etc etc. ENJOY.

The air tasted like death, thick with smoke, laden with the unmistakable scent of charred wood and burning flesh. Berk was falling, but Astrid would never give into it, never let it tear her down. Not even now, when her muscles screamed in agony with each step and each breath, when her wounds bled, the fetid smoke stinging her skin. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her axe, broken splinters biting into her raw skin, wood slick with blood - not just her own, but others too. Because she was a Hofferson, a warrior born to protect this place. Her home.

Hiccup landed nearby on Toothless and Astrid wiped the blood from her forehead, trying to stem the red haze it gave everything as it slid undaunted into her eye. He looked so small on the back of a dragon. He was small; so was she. They weren’t exactly prime examples of Vikings yet, how could they be? They were still growing, still learning. He would be chief one day and she hoped she could stand beside him then, if she made it through all this. He almost smiled, was almost relieved to see her standing there, damaged as she was.

She felt the dragon approach before she saw it and she knew she’d never turn fast enough, run fast enough, fight fast enough to do anything about it. She knew from the way Hiccup’s eyes widened, the way his face twisted in horror, the way he cried her name, even if she couldn’t hear it as the word was swallowed up in the roar of the devastation around them. She knew she should turn and fight, that she should go into Valhalla with a battle cry on her lips, but she didn’t want to look away from Hiccup. She wanted to see him one last time, to say everything she hadn’t had a chance to tell him yet. That she was proud of the man he would become, that she would follow him to Hel if he needed her to, that he was more than her best friend.

But there wasn’t time for that.

The heat of the dragonfire engulfed her, blistering her skin and spreading searing pain throughout her whole body, but she still wouldn’t look away. She had at least one thing she _had_ to say to Hiccup, even if he’d never hear it. Her mouth formed the words, his anguished face the last thing she saw.

Astrid opened her eyes, gasping for air and clutching at her throat, half expecting to be on fire. Her heart pounded in her chest, adrenaline rushing through her veins and pinning her in place. Her bed felt too warm and sweat trickled down her spine as she stared into the darkness of her room. Shadows danced across the walls as cars rushed by on the streets below and leaves swayed in the howling winds outside. She was not on fire. Her skin was intact and whole, her body had not been consumed by an angry dragon in a flaming Viking village. But the words still burned on her lips.

She sat up, flinging the blanket off her damp frame and launching herself out of her bed. Her ankle caught the blunt edge of the _seax,_ sending the blade spinning. She jumped deftly, carefully hopping between the various blades laid on her floor like a poorly planned booby trap. Her mind was blank except for the fading phrase that she repeated over and over again in silence until she made her way to the bookshelf only to find the Old Norse text missing. She spun, looking on the floor for it, only vaguely remembering that she’d been using it before she fell asleep, and hadn’t she fallen asleep on the floor? How had she ended up in bed, anyway?

It didn’t matter. She needed to find the words before she forgot them entirely.

“Ek ann þér,” she muttered beneath her breath as she flipped through the pages, writing down the translations in a half-awake daze.

When she was done, she stared at the words she’d written uncomprehendingly. Or rather she refused to understand what she was reading because dreams were nonsense, no matter how real they’d felt. Dreams were inconsequential gibberish, junk that her brain had pushed together as it had filed it all away while she slept. They weren’t real. She rubbed at her bare arms tentatively, the memory of the searing pain of her blistering skin still relevant even as she tried to deny her dreams, her eyes still on the words on the page. It must have been something she’d learned when she was trying to learn Old Norse, once upon a time. Translating the runes must have brought it all up again, that had to be the answer. It was a common enough phrase, the kind of thing a silly high school girl learning Old Norse would have wanted to know how to say in case she got the chance to tell the student teacher that he was “the one”. (Fifteen year old Astrid had been pretty sure that Mr. Eretson really _was_ “the one”.) The trouble was she’d never really been that silly high school girl and she’d never felt the need to say _those_ words. Not even once. Certainly not when she’d been in the throes of learning Norse.

“Astrid?”

She sucked in a startled breath at the sound of her name in Hiksti’s distinctively nasal-intoned voice. He’d been in her dream. He’d been there, younger and smaller and _terrified_. He’d watched her burn; she’d stared him straight in the eyes and said _those_ words as she died. And his name hadn’t been Hiksti, had it? She’d called him Hiccup, seamlessly translating Old Norse into something her brain comprehended. The word had a meaning beyond his name, it was a thing she knew. Hiccup. And it meant something to her. Really, actually meant something to her.

He said something in Icelandic, or Old Norse, or whatever it was he spoke, but she couldn’t understand it, not like she could in the dream. Her hand curled into a fist, crumpling the paper that held her translation. It wasn’t something that mattered, after all. Only a dream brought on by the stress of the night and her late night translational attempts. That would teach her to try to make sense of ancient runes on suspiciously shiny replica Viking weapons carried by cosplaying Icelandic skydivers on a Tuesday night. None of this answered why she had been in the bed.

“How did I get to bed?” she asked, knowing full well he wouldn’t understand her, but pointing at him in a vague attempt at trying.

She kept expecting him to snap out of this, to break character and laugh. To tell her he really was Ruffnut’s Loki Day surprise, that he’d strung her along pretty well but since it was almost daybreak, it would only be fair to release her from her personal hell now. He didn’t. He only looked at her with a furrowed brow, the bruise beneath his eye an angry purple but far less swollen than mere hours earlier. He pulled himself to sitting, the overstretched t-shirt she’d jammed over his head straining against the muscles beneath. Astrid tore her eyes away so she wasn’t staring. After some sleep, the absurdity of the night before struck her hard. She knew what would happen: Ruffnut would come over as they’d discussed and she’d laugh as Hiksti finally broke character. She’d really rub it in. And it would sting, not because she’d finally managed to be fooled, but because she’d let herself _believe_ , even for a moment. She’d let herself _want_ something impossible, even for a night.

Hiksti said her name again, his tongue rolling on the r and lengthening the i in a way Astrid was starting to find irresistible. Maybe she should just make out with the guy, really fall victim to the fantasy. She was pretty sure Ruffnut couldn’t afford to pay someone for _that_ and he’d _have to_ break then. He’d have to ward her off because there was no way _that_ was in the contract. He said her name again and she finally raised her eyes to his. She saw his face again from the dream, younger, yes, but the same concern was etched in those green eyes. He said something she couldn’t understand and she shook her head.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” she whispered.

Hiksti studied her face, his brow evening out into something different, something determined. He swung his legs around to dangle over the edge of the bed. Astrid watched him blankly, the muscles of his back working as he leaned over and reached around for something on the floor. The thought crossed her mind that he might be reaching for a piece of the dissected arsenal splayed out across her bedroom floor, finally intent on killing her off in some sort of bizarre revenge act because Snotlout had broken his heart at some point, but was pleasantly surprised when he sat back up, an adorably triumphant grin on his face, his busted prosthetic in hand. He attached it to his leg with a deftness Astrid had to admire and then stood, putting weight on it tentatively, his eyes locked on it as he jammed it into the ground a couple of times before he seemed satisfied that it was sturdy. Then he turned his gaze toward Astrid, eyeing her like she was a wild animal ready to run from him, holding his hand out in front of him as though that would keep her from attacking as he advanced.

The truth was she didn’t trust herself to move at all without accidentally cutting her feet off on her inadvertent carpet of death. She stood perfectly still as he carefully stepped between the blades on the floor, muttering something under his breath, until he was right in front of her. He held out his hand toward her, twisting it so that it was less of a ward and more of an offering. He wanted her to take his hand; she wanted to take it. Astrid looked at his palm, lined with callouses and etched with deep lines. Hands that knew hard work. Hands that had seen things, despite the deceptive delicateness of his long fingers. Her eyes met his and he offered her a smile, small and hopeful. Astrid realized she was in trouble then because she didn’t want this to end, even if it was a lie, even if it was the most elaborate Loki Day trick she’d ever seen.

“Astrid,” he said, his voice soft as he held his hand out a little further.

He said something else, something that played on the edges of Astrid’s memory, something that reminded her of the dream and how the Norse had effortlessly made sense to her, like it was simply a language she’d forgotten and not one that she’d only very sloppily learned to speak. With uncharacteristic caution, she placed her hand in his, the crumpled ball of paper falling from the fingertips of her other hand as she did, those impossible words forgotten for the moment. Hiksti smiled at her as his hand closed around hers and then he tugged her toward him with unexpected strength, swinging her up into his arms all before Astrid even had a chance to gasp in surprise. She wrapped her arms around his neck, stunned and nervous to find herself in his arms, being carried like a damsel in distress. He kept his eyes on hers and she stared at him wordlessly, trying desperately to remember the last time anyone had carried her like this and coming up blank. Maybe when she was a kid, maybe when she’d been hurt on the field. But not like this. This was different.

Hiksti walked them back to the bed, carefully stepping around the knives on the ground, and Astrid realized that this must have been how she’d ended up in the bed; he must have scooped her up like she was inconsequential, braving her pointy flooring choices, to tuck her in beside him. Her cheeks heated up as she tried to around the idea and what it meant, if anything. She’d almost convinced herself that it was all part of Ruffnut’s sinister plan when Hiksti’s step faltered and they pitched forward toward the bed.

A foreign curse escaped Hiksti’s lips, the words unrecognizable but the sentiment unmistakable. Astrid’s back hit the bed with a soft thump, her head sinking into her pillow as Hiksti’s hands came to rest on the bed on either side of her head, their noses nearly touching. He drew in a sharp breath and Astrid was sure he was close enough to hear the pounding of her heart. She couldn’t look away from his eyes, grass green rims around huge pupils. There were freckles on his face, peppering the purple of his bruise around his eye, dotting his skin like disorganized constellations. She wanted him to be real; she wanted the heat from his body and the touch of his skin, surprisingly soft beneath where her hands rested on his arms. His eyes dropped to her lips, and hers to his, and she knew this was stupid, crazy even, but she didn’t really care. She just _wanted_ —

A scream cut through the quietude of the night, bloodcurdling and high pitched, making all the hairs on Astrid’s body stand to attention. Hiksti rolled off her on instinct and Astrid hurled herself off the bed, leaping over her floor of death toward the door and wrenching it open. There was a faint light emanating from the kitchen and Astrid ran toward it, only to find Fishlegs standing there, mouth open and face pale in the fluorescent glow of the open fridge. On the top shelf of the fridge, there was a head, severed at the throat, a puddle of congealed blood pooled on the tempered glass shelf, blonde curls framing a disfigured face, expression frozen in shock.

Snotlout came bounding into the kitchen, shirtless and wearing only a pair inside out basketball shorts he had very likely just pulled on. Astrid was about to tell him not to look because she really didn’t want to clean up both congealed blood _and_ vomit when he started snickering, unable to hold in his laughter.

“Did she get you?” he asked.

Both Astrid and Fishlegs looked at him. Ruffnut. Of course. Loki Day.

“ _What_?” Fishlegs shrieked, “There’s a head in your fridge and you’re _laughing.”_

 Astrid all but growled as she hip checked Fishlegs out of the way and leaned in, grabbing the head by its hair and launching it backward. He gave a squeak of terror, but it was the soft exclamation behind then that cut through her irritation.

“Oh.”

Astrid spun at the sound of Hiksti’s voice as the head rolled past his feet – _foot_ and metal…thing – slapping the hardwood flooring with a series of sticky sounding thumps as it went. He looked at Astrid, blinking rapidly but otherwise unfazed by the sight of a rolling head. Fishlegs, on the other hand, slapped his hands on his face and started screaming again while Snolout bent forward laughing. Astrid spun and grabbed Fish’s wrists, yanking them from his face.

“You’re going to wake the neighbours. Stop making a _scene_. Do you want the _police_ here?” she hissed.

Fish’s scream died almost instantly, petering to a squeak before silence once again filled the room. Astrid shook her head at him.

“Some doctor,” she muttered.

“ _Almost_ doctor,” Snot corrected.

Fish sniffed, holding his nose high in the air. “All of my patients have been _alive_.”

Somewhere down the hall outside, a door opened and closed. Astrid and Snotlout looked at each other.

“Mrs. H,” Snot mouthed.

Astrid suddenly felt exhausted, overwhelmed by all the events of the last…not many hours. And now she was going to have to deal with Mrs. Henderson down the hall? Unbelievable.

Astrid and Snot counted the seconds together: “One. Two. Three. Four. Fi—”

A hurried knock came on their door. Astrid and Snotlout looked at each other and started mouthing the words as the filtered through the door. “Astrid? Snotlout? It’s Mrs. Henderson down the hall. Is everything alright?”

Astrid glared at Snotlout. “It’s your turn since you were clearly in on this idiocy. As if a head in the fridge would scare me. Please. I have standards.”

Snotlout jogged toward the door, pausing only to punt the head back toward the kitchen like a soccer ball. Astrid rolled her eyes and picked it up. She flipped the kitchen light on and held it out to Fishlegs.

“It’s fake. It’s Loki Day.”

Fishlegs exhaled in a way that was both deeply relieved and incredibly annoyed. Astrid could understand the feeling.

“Sorry, Mrs. H,” Snot said, “Astrid saw a mouse.”

Astrid glowered at the back of his head and considered throwing the head at him, but ultimately decided against it since she still didn’t know what she was supposed to do with Hiksti; the last thing she needed was Mrs. H getting involved. Even now she could hear the old woman giving Snot advice on how to effectively catch mice. Hiksti tilted his head, watching the exchange at the door with interest. If Mrs. H saw him, she’d start making up stories to the landlord about their “wild parties” (usually just Snot watching the game…enthusiastically), or even worse, lecture Astrid about her “loose morals”.

Fishlegs took the head from her and peered at it, pushing his glasses into place.

“I wouldn’t have been fooled by this with my glasses on.”

Astrid sighed. “Of course not.”

She looked at Hiksti standing in the doorway of the kitchen, his eyes locked on the head with a slight frown on his lips. Astrid grabbed the head from Fishlegs and tossed it to Hiksti, who caught it quite deftly. He turned it in his hands, frowning and tugging tentatively at the translucent “blood” at the base of the neck. The front door closed and Snotlout came back into the kitchen. He pulled the head out of Hiksti’s hands, tossing it up in the air like a basketball.

“Classic,” he said, grinning. He turned to Hiksti and said, “It’s not real, my dude. Where’s my phone? I should translate that for him.”

“We both know it’s you who would scream if there was a mouse,” Astrid grumbled, annoyed that she’d forgotten the magic of the translation app.

“Yes, but Mrs. H doesn’t know that.”

“I hate you.”

Snot rolled his eyes and tried to spin the head on one finger. It didn’t work and he fumbled the head until it fell from his hand and bounced across the floor. Astrid groaned, feeling just as tired as she had the night before as Hiksti picked up the head again, holding it by its rubbery earlobe and testing the bounce of it by moving his wrist up and down. Either they didn’t have rubber in Iceland or they didn’t have it in ancient Berk. She wasn’t sure it even mattered anymore.

She’d almost kissed him again. Saved by the scream. Grumbling, she pushed past all three boys and collapsed on the couch, pulling a pillow over her head.

“I hate Loki Day,” she told the pillow.

“It hates you, too,” Snot offered from somewhere in the kitchen.

He was saying something to either Fishlegs or Hiksti and Astrid just couldn’t be bothered. Maybe if she held the pillow over her head long enough, she wouldn’t have to worry about any of it anymore. Maybe it would all just go away. Somewhere by her feet, the couch shifted as though someone had just sat down. Astrid pulled the pillow from her face, prepared to tell Snotlout off because who else would dare to sit at a time like this? But instead, she found herself looking at Hiksti. He offered her a careful smile and she stared at him, frozen again by the feeling that there was something more to him being here. The memory of the dream was starting to fade now, only bits and pieces remaining. Just those words remaining, clear and bright in her mind.

“What am I supposed to do with you?” she murmured.

She was sure he didn’t understand, but he offered her a loose, somewhat floppy shrug and a lopsided smile in response. She didn’t fight the smile she gave him in return, small and weak as it was. She started to sit up, to lean toward him, when the door erupted with a stark pounding. Definitely not Mrs. Henderson. The police maybe. Oh god, what was she going to tell the police? Could they come in? If they did, they’d see her bedroom floor of death and her Icelandic skydiver. They’d throw her in jail for crimes against sanity, for sure. Snotlout peeked his head into the room, his eyes as wide and petrified as hers likely were. Astrid was considering their escape options – they were only on the third floor, maybe they could rappel down the side of the building. And then—

“Astrid, are you up yet?”

There was a collective sigh released from Astrid, Snot and Fish, but Hiksti’s eyes were on the door, his body tense.

“Ruffnut?” he asked, his voice hushed.

“Astrid! Open up!”

Hiksti’s face split into a radiant smile. “Ruffnut!”

He pushed himself up, teetering on his precarious prosthetic as he made his way to the door. He struggled with the door knob a little but before anyone could stop him, he wrenched the door open and wrapped his arms around Ruffnut.


End file.
